Still
by Immokk
Summary: He closed them, not because he was afraid to die or because he did not want to see the gun explode; his death held no fear for him, it never had...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This first chapter was originally written to stand alone. Although it resembles a view of what was supposed to have happened before Love Never Dies but it wasn't actually written in that vein. I had initially decided not to post this but a new story popped into my head and I decided to write

It's sort of my version of where I think 'Phantom of Manhattan'/ 'Love Never Dies' **should** have gone, although very little of this story will resemble these two tales. Therefore, this is a Phantom Fiction and NOT a LND re-write. It is mostly very different.

**A few things to note: **Firstly: I do not own the original characters from Leroux/ ALW/ Kay's versions of this but I do own my own characters, plot and characterisations.

**Secondly: **I do not write for profit and although I thoroughly enjoy reading reviews, love replying to them and VERY much appreciate people leaving them, I sort of don't write for them. I write for my own enjoyment and post to just… get this _out_ there. The reason for pointing this out is that I would ask any would be flamers to kindly leave my fics alone. If you don't like it, it is easy enough for you to _just leave it alone_. I love to write and am very pleased that some people seem to get some enjoyment from my stories, but that is the extent of it. I do not write to deliberately offend people and I would ask that you do not leave reviews that might do this to me or any of the people reading this.** Particularly the latter, as my readers mean rather a lot to me.**

**Thirdly: **Although I enjoy writing I am proneto bouts of writers block and although I pre write a chunk of the story before posting, I often come unstuck somewhere around half way through. There may be breaks in this (although not until later) but rest assured I will finish it… I have yet to leave a story incomplete.

**Finally: **After the end of my last story (_Aftermath_) I came under some criticism for the way I left things. I did this deliberately. I do not think in necessary to spoon feed the readers ,you're an intelligent bunch and, from my experience, many of you like to use your imaginations a bit. I rarely write epilogues or sequels as I am all about the journey, not the ending. Once it is over, it is over. However, people should feel free to leave reviews with what they think might have happened or should have happened. I would also invite people to do a 'continuation' of my stories, if you find the endings unsatisfactory. All I ask is that you give me credit for the original and point readers in it's general direction… oh, and let me know you have done it so that I can read!

Wow, I can talk… without further ado…

"_So many dreams that flew away  
So many words we didn't say  
Two people lost in a storm  
Where did we go?  
Where'd we go?_

We lost what we both had found  
You know we let each other down  
But then most of all  
I do love you  
Still!"

_Lionel Richie_

**Chapter 1**

**Prologue**

When she breathed, a mist of hot air whooshed out in front of her in reaction to the bone numbing cold. It was almost pitch black, too dark for her to see properly now, but she felt her way along the wall, remembering all of the times she had been there before. As she crept along, being careful not to catch her foot on the loose rocks that scraped under her feet, she wondered what she was actually doing.

Marriage to Raoul was two weeks away, a day she had longed for her entire life. Everything had been planned perfectly, just as she had dreamed as a young girl growing up with her father in the North of France. She had known Raoul nearly all of her life and knew, even as a child, that someday that they would be together.

Even as a boy he had been handsome but as a man he was truly dashing, and just the sight of him was enough to melt her heart.

Her toe collided with a solid object bringing her crashing back to reality. She winced but refrained from crying out, despite the throbbing in her foot. Not much further along, the cave began to lighten slightly and she realised that she had arrived at the opening to the cellar.

The gate was agape, yawning into the vast lake, as she had expected and she gingerly slid through the gap until her legs were knee deep in the icy water. The light was not much better in there but she could see enough to wade across to the dry land on the far side and heave herself out of the water.

She looked around and her heart sank; she could see no sign of him and everything looked exactly as Meg had described it. Christine and Raoul had been long gone by the time the mob had finally made it into the lair, when they didn't find the phantom they had set about ransacking the place, destroying his home and leaving very little undisturbed.

After several long minutes searching in the vast blackness, she gave up and slumped into the chair in the centre of the room. It was the only one still standing and she was grateful of its presence. Coming here had been a mistake, she knew it was from the beginning, and yet she had done it anyway. Sometimes she did not even make sense to herself.

She didn't hear him approach, rather she sensed him there, and though she knew that he wasn't close enough to touch her, she felt his presence all the same.

'Erik,' she said softly. It echoed none the less.

'It sounds like venom from your mouth,' he said quietly. She did not know quite how he did it, yet even in a whisper he managed to sound threatening. A chill shimmered along her spine.

She swallowed back the lump in her throat, 'I knew you would be here,'

'Why are you here?' he asked without anger.

'I don't know,' she replied honestly. Turning to look at him in the dark, she was shocked at how dishevelled he looked. Say what you will about the phantom, but he was always neat, smart… he always seemed composed and collected. Rarely did his exterior betray his inner demons. She could not see him well, but could see well enough that she knew he wore no mask, nor jacket, his shirt did not glow white against the blackness, but instead looked nearly as dark as the night itself.

'Leave me,' he said quietly and showed her his back, moving away from her and not waiting for a response.

She swallowed her fear, for whatever she tried to tell herself, she _was_ afraid of him. Anyone that insisted otherwise was lying; he was a frightful being, strong and tall, dark and mysterious…cold… _terrifying_.

'Why?'

He turned sharply and in an instant he was on her, his hands grabbing her wrists, his face almost pressed to hers. 'How dare you!' he spat, fury and pain burned deep into the tone of his voice. His eyes shone gold and silver flecked across the normally blue orbs.

She flinched away but he held her wrists tightly, 'Erik…'

'Stop saying my name, stop talking to me,' he growled. He threw her back and she stumbled, hitting her foot on some debris and tumbling to the ground. She landed hard and cried out, but he did not turn back to look at her. 'Get out,'

Christine struggled back to her feet, aching from the fall as her wrists throbbed from his tight grasp. She stood stock still staring at his back.

'You have no business here,' he said, his voice calmer.

'I needed to see you,' she said softly.

He glanced over his shoulder, 'For what purpose?'

She swallowed. 'The kiss…'

He turned. '_What_ kiss?'

'Here, when… you _know_ what kiss,'

'There was no kiss,' he snapped, anger blazing in his eyes. 'There was only your act of manipulation, your _pity_,'

She stared at him, she knew it and so did he, 'You felt it,'

He said nothing.

'I know you did,' she said, her heart pounding wildly. 'You felt it too,'

When he still did not reply, when his eyes gave nothing away to her, she said, 'I have kissed before but I have never felt anything like that,'

He snorted out a half laugh. 'And that is why you came to me?'

This time it was her turn to fall mute, she did not know how to answer now, she should not have come, how could she know what would happen, how he would react?

'This kiss,' he said, 'You came me here to convince me that I felt something that I did not? This _kiss_ is why you are here?'

She nodded.

'I felt nothing,' he said simply.

She did not believe him. She could not believe that she was the only one that felt it, the earth shudder, the tingle, the rush, the pain… 'Then kiss me again,'

He stared at her for what seemed an eternity, his eyes piercing into her, 'You jest, surely?'

She shook her head. _No_, she didn't. She had never been more serious before in her life. 'If you did not feel it then I must have imagined it. And I would like you to kiss me again, so that I know,'

'What is this?'

Unsure of what he was asking her, she remained silent.

'What are you doing?' he asked with less anger than confusion.

'I want you to kiss me,' she insisted, holding firm. 'That is why I am here and I am not leaving until you do. If you say that you felt nothing, then prove it to me,'

He looked astonished and in other circumstances she might have found it funny, it was such rarity. It was only then that she noticed that her hands were trembling and her stomach was somersaulting.

'Kiss me,' she said, hoping it sounded like a demand, knowing that she sounded more like desperation.

Erik looked at the floor, at his hands, closed his eyes and blinked them open again.

Before she could speak again, she was in his arms, caught in that universe that was neither real nor false, the blissful in-between that she felt when he was near her. Their lips locked and she grabbed his shirt, tugging him closer as the power of the kiss almost overwhelmed her. She felt it again and again, ripples of sensation throughout her body, feelings that she had never had before.

It seemed so cliché but she was convinced that the earth shifted slightly beneath her feet, that the ground was no longer entirely stable.

His hands were strong and pressed her close as the kiss lingered and then, finally, broke away.

He stepped back, leaving her standing there, unsteady and breathless.

'Did you feel nothing, Erik?' she asked him, softly.

He looked at his feet, refusing to meet her gaze. His anger was gone, replaced with what, she did not know, but she knew that the _anger_ was no longer there. She could feel the weight of it lift from them.

'I feel the same thing I always feel when I am with you, Christine,' he said quietly after what, to her, felt like an eternity.

She stared at him but he would not look up, he would not meet her eyes. 'What is it?' she asked, desperate to know. Confused and moved, at the same time. 'Tell me what the feeling is because I do not understand it,'

'Does it frighten you?' he asked, finally glancing up. Their eyes met.

She nodded because it _did_ frighten her. The ground should be still, it had no right to unbalance her.

'It is love, Christine,' he said gently. 'It is love that I feel whenever I see you and it is love that I feel when I kiss you,'

_Love_. It hit her hard and fast, and suddenly she knew. How naïve she had been to dismiss the flips of her stomach, the soaring she felt when he sang to her, the pangs inside when he spoke her name. What a fool she had been to not see it, to not see _him_. How cruel, how naïve… how utterly foolish.

She stepped to him and reached for his hands, when they were in hers she leaned up and kissed him again, with softness, with care… with _love_. He did not move away, he did not kiss her back, he did not breathe. When she moved back she felt a blush creep up her cheeks.

'You shouldn't be here,' he said but his voice was soothing, this time. 'You should go now, to your home,'

'But Erik…'

'You don't belong here,'

'But you feel it!'

His shoulders sagged. 'I do,' he said. 'More than you could ever know, but I am not the one for you. I am too callous, too dark… too _ugly_ for you,'

She shook her head. 'I don't feel this with… with Raoul,'

Erik didn't say anything, he didn't need to, she could see in his eyes that he was letting her go. It was the same look as the night of Don Juan, the same sorrowful, intense look.

'I should feel this with him,' she insisted quietly, she wanted him to understand and yet powerless now to change anything.

'He will take care of you,'

'_You_ will take care of me,'

She grabbed his arm and when he turned she begged, 'Kiss me again, please Erik, if you must make me leave you then kiss me again and I shall go. _Just_… I want to feel it again, I want a memory from you … to keep,'

He raised his hand and touched her chin, such delicacy from such power, he stroked the edge of her jaw with his thumb and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. Her hand rested on his chest, she could feel his heart and as the kiss deepened, she knew that she could not turn back. When he pulled her close, when she felt his strong arms envelope her, she knew that he was all she needed. There was no Raoul, there was no wedding, there was no future without him.

Erik must have sensed this because instead of breaking the kiss, he deepened it further. Possessed, she let her hands stroke his chest, the muscles of his back, she tugged at his shirt, demanding and wanting. If she felt resistance she simply kissed him harder until he relented, until his lips left hers and travelled along her jaw and down her neck.

She let him touch and caress her, she let him kiss and hold her, want and undress her. There in the darkness, she allowed what he had always wanted and what she never knew she needed. She gave herself to him, holding him close to her, feeling each breath he took, each move he made, hearing each sound he uttered. Eyes closed she clung to his strong body, felt the binds of his muscles like rope beneath her fingertips.

She let him love her and she loved him in return.

Finally, in his arms, wrapped in a blanket, drowsiness overcame her and she felt sleep take over. Too tired to speak she managed one last glance at his face, he was awake, staring at the ceiling of the cavernous room. She wanted to tell him but could not, sleep came too quickly.

That night she dreamt of his hands, of the ground moving and no longer did it terrify her. When she awoke, Erik was not there. All that remained of his presence was a single red rose, tied with a black ribbon and a note.

'_Christine, _

_ If I could tell you all the ways I love you, I would be here, writing, for an eternity. Since the moment I met you, you have been my everything. It is my pleasure to have known you and to have loved you but I must leave you with your safety. _

_ I have watched you sleep tonight and it was the sleep I have always longed for. The peaceful sleep of the just. You should always have this and with me, I am afraid, you will not._

_Though I will love you endlessly, I cannot be with you and you cannot be with me. I wish I could explain this better._

_ Be happy and be loved. Though you may not feel it for him, Raoul feels it for you. If nothing else, you will always be safe with him,_

_Forever,_

_Erik'_

_A/N: Please bear in mind that the whole story will most definitely __**not**__ follow this pattern and this is the last time that you will see Erik for a while… however, he is prominent to the story(as he always is in my fics) and his _air_ is everywhere. _

_I ask those of you who wish to continue from here to:_

_Be patient._

_Prompt me, where appropriate, with PM's etc if you think I have left it too long between updates. I am determined that this story will take no longer than 6 months to finish!_

_Remember that I am hoping that this will be a slow build, there will be chapters that may not feel relevant but, in my opinion, are, for a variety of reasons._

_If you want to ask a question; ask, although I will not guarantee satisfactory answers._

_If you want to guess- guess; but if you genuinely think you have the ending nailed down… please don't post it on the reviews section- I don't want any spoilers for other readers. Feel free to send them to me, though._

_Hope you enjoyed the Prologue x_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Spotted a couple of typos In the first chapter so I will attempt to go back and change. Wanted to get this second chapter up quickly because I don't want anyone to be under any illusions about this story. The first chapter is not a sign of things to come.**

**Thank you, as always for the reviews. **

**Chapter 2**

Christine had slowly come to love the smell of the ocean; the salty, fresh air that glided in on the gentle sea breeze. Each morning in the Spring, she rose early and sat on her balcony overlooking the Atlantic, waiting for the sun to rise. It was the same that morning and with a shawl draped over her shoulders she waited patiently as the orange half circle began to peek above the horizon. It always amazed her how quickly it seemed to happen after that but that _waiting_ was always her favourite part of the day.

The peace of it.

Raoul usually slept well into the morning, often rising only shortly before midday. Benoit, on the other hand, rarely stayed in bed any later than seven and that morning was no different. As Christine quietly soaked up the morning tranquillity Benoit sprang out and leapt into her lap, flinging his thin arms around her and planting kisses on her cheeks.

As much as she enjoyed her peace, she loved her son and so she scooped him into her arms without a complaint. When he finally settled into her lap she tugged her shawl around them both and kissed his dark hair. 'Did you sleep well?' she asked.

His head bobbed as he nodded.

She stroked his hair, 'I'm glad,'

She treasured his very presence; every second with him was a moment she cherished wholeheartedly. They had been unsuccessful in conceiving anymore children and so she and Raoul made sure that every minute with their son counted. Raoul had wanted a daughter so badly, they tried but to no avail and although they loved Benoit it had always felt like part of them wasn't quite whole.

The boy glanced up with a smile and Christine knew exactly what he was going to say. This wasn't always part of the routine, but featured more often than not.

'No,' she said, unable to keep the smile from her face. He pouted. 'No beach, your tutor will be here soon,'

He frowned. 'I'm bored of my lessons,'

'You must learn,' she said, not as sternly as she might have hoped.

'I know, mama, but they are so _boring_,'

Eight years old and already schooling was dull to him. 'It is good for you. To learn things,' she insisted.

'I like to learn things,' he said reasonably. 'They're just not teaching me anything I don't already know,'

Christine rolled her eyes. Benoit was a bright boy, no doubt, and he took in information like a sponge, but he did not know it all, as much as he often liked to think he did.

'Why don't you tell your tutor that you want to learn something different?' she suggested.

Folding his arms across his chest he said, 'Why can't we play on the beach?'

Christine opened her mouth to answer but was startled by Raoul's voice behind her, 'Because your schooling is important, Ben, now go and get dressed,'

Benoit and Christine turned to him at the same time, both surprised to see him rise so early. Their son always did as he was told, _eventually_, and so he kissed Christine's cheek before dashing into the house to prepare for the day ahead.

Raoul remained at the door, leaning against its frame. 'It's beautiful out here at this time,'

'Yes, it is,' Christine said wistfully and patted the seat next to her. It didn't require much encouragement, and Raoul slid in beside her, taking her hand in his. 'I'm surprised to see you out here this early; you were up late again,'

Raoul would not look at her. 'It's getting worse,'

She squeezed his hand gently.

'Soon there will be no family money left at all,' he said. 'And Philippe just will not listen,'

Christine knew that Raoul had spent night after night pleading with his older brother, begging him to stop the extravagant spending. It had been going on for so long that it had become part of their routine; Raoul's late night, Philippe's impromptu visits, Raoul needing to sleep in late…

'All of the drinking is bad enough, the money he spends on clothes is one thing but…' he shook his head, his youthful features beginning to look tired and worn. 'These investments… these _bloody_ investments. They are akin to gambling it all away,'

Knowing that there was not much she could say or do, she simply snuggled into his side and slipped her arm around him. He would vent and she would comfort him, because it was all she could do and she _had_ to do something.

'He is being conned, a man of his stature,' Raoul added as he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. 'We will soon have no money left at all. I knew it was a bad idea moving to America but I had no idea how horribly wrong it would go,'

'You have us,' Christine suggested gently. This at least brought a smile to her husband's troubled looking expression.

'I wonder if you and Benoit are the only things keeping me going,' he said.

She kissed him softly, 'And so what if we are?'

Again, he smiled and squeezed her to him.

'I have told you, I will sing,' she said. 'It will at least give us some income,'

He shook his head. 'It is not right that you should be bread winner… I _am_ looking,'

'I know it t isn't easy,' she soothed. 'America is different to France,'

He nodded.

'We could go back,' she said. 'To Paris,'

'And leave Philippe here?' he asked, and she knew that he was right. 'I can't do that,'

'I know,' she said gently. 'I'm sorry,'

'You should never be sorry, my darling,' he said with equal softness. '_He_ should be sorry and yet he cannot see it. He just cannot see what is happening,' again he shook his head. 'He drinks and gives the family money away and thinks nothing of it,'

Christine could not think of anything to say that would not be inflammatory and so she remained quiet. They sat there in the stillness of the morning, in their togetherness; the only sounds were the swishing of the sea up against the sandy shore and the soft thump of Raoul's heartbeat in her ear.

When the door knocker alerted them to company both were none too keen to answer it. Eventually, Raoul kissed his wife's hair and rose. 'I'll go,' he said.

Expecting Benoit's tutor, Christine sat up and neatened her hair, taking a last glance out over the ocean before making her way back into their house. As she clicked the rear door closed behind her she heard Raoul's voice rise with anger.

'… told you before, I don't want you to come here looking like that!'

Christine sighed, knowing that it was Philippe at the door. It was an early hour for visiting and therefore she could only assume that the older man had not been home and was still drunk. She composed herself, straightened her dress, and entered the hallway.

To say that Philippe looked dishevelled would have been a massive understatement and far too kind.

He was an utter mess.

His blonde hair was damped to his head, it looked greasy and too long, wisps spread out and stuck to the sides of his face. The bags beneath his eyes were deep and black, and made his eyes look like they were sinking into his face. An unkempt beard had developed on once smooth features and clung, in what look like clumps, around his jaw. The whites of his eyes had taken on an almost yellow hue with red streaks bursting out from the centre.

If this was not bad enough, his clothes looked dirty and slept in and the smell emanating from him was not altogether pleasant either.

Raoul turned to look at her as she walked in, his face an odd picture of horror and shame. 'I've asked him to leave,' he said.

She glanced at Philippe who, unlike her husband, showed no signs of embarrassment whatsoever.

'I need to talk to you,' Philippe slurred as he stepped forward, towards Raoul. Raoul's hands shot out in front of him as his brother staggered in his direction and he just managed to catch him before he tripped himself.

Philippe giggled. Like a child.

Christine rolled her eyes, unable to hide her disdain any longer.

'We spoke long into the night, Philippe,' Raoul reminded him sternly. 'Where have you been?'

Philippe made an attempt at shrugging his shoulders but the effort of such a task threw him off balance and Raoul was forced to catch him again.

'It's clear that you have not been home,' Raoul said, as he propped his brother against the wall. 'Look at you. What a state you are,'

'Something has come up,' Philippe hiccupped. Christine cringed when Raoul turned to her, helplessness etched into his face.

Raoul shook his head.

'Benoit's first tutor will be here shortly,' Christine said to Raoul, through her tightly clenched teeth.

He nodded and hooked his arm under Philippe. 'If we must talk, come this way,'

Philippe happily leaned against Raoul as he tried to guide him through into the parlour room. They stumbled but Raoul managed to reach out a hand out and stop their fall before they both landed in a heap. As they reached the door, Philippe glanced back at Christine. 'He will make you a star,' Philippe garbled before Raoul dragged him into the room and slammed the door closed behind him.

Christine stared at the parlour door for a long moment, bemused by the fall from grace of her once elegant, if not always affable, brother-in-law. It was rare to see him sober but it was nearly as rare that she saw him so completely bedraggled, so completely _out of it_. For a moment she thought of his incoherent ramblings and felt an anger deep inside her, but the emotion soon past and she was left thinking of Raoul.

_Poor Raoul. _

Loving, gentle, kind, patient Raoul. How _he_ must feel in this situation. He was neither able to help his brother nor stop him, nothing he tried had worked so far and he admitted to himself that he was fast running out of ideas.

To think, Philippe was the man who had so vehemently objected to his younger, aristocratic brother marrying someone he considered to be beneath them. Yet here she stood, more self-possessed and chic than he could probably even remember being. It was clear that Philippe had lost all self respect and had lost his way since their father had died and he had become Comte De Chagny.

Philippe controlled the family money although was expected to make a certain amount of allowances to each member of the family. However, the money was fast draining away with Philippe's irresponsible and self destructive ways. Christine had offered to sing again, to bring in some money but Raoul, proud and furious as he was, would hear nothing of it.

Raoul did not object to working, of course, but was finding it difficult to find a career in America. His English had improved considerably but some of the businessmen found the strength of his accent off putting. Not even his contacts from France had been able to make any leeway.

When the door knocked again, it startled her from her thoughts. She glanced up at herself in the hall mirror and patted her dress down at the front. She could make out the shape of Mrs Kelly through the glass in the door. As she turned, Benoit came bolting down the stairs, book under his arm, and nearly knocked her over.

He glanced at the door and then back to her, 'Who was here earlier?' he asked, as she bent down and straightened his shirt collar for him.

'Uncle Philippe,' Christine answered.

Benoit frowned and then, as if he were a grown up, shrugged both shoulders. 'Papa is so patient with him,'

It was all she could do not to laugh. It amazed her sometimes, how perceptive children were, what adults thought they did not notice, they seemed to absorb completely. She made a mental note to mention it to Raoul and then moved, with her son, to open the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Going to reply to reviews individually as soon as I get chance, but just to say, thank you for leaving them…**

**As a note to all: Raoul is not an ogre. As much as I am an E/C 'shipper' as it were, Raoul was written as a noble, kind, romantic man… if a little naïve. I think for ALW to make him such a brute is saddening. **

**As I said before, this is not a LND re-write but I will tell you now that through the course of it there will be vague similarities (Moving to America, the son etc). I'm hoping to simply come up with a more realistic view of what could have happened after Phantom, if they all ended up in America. **

**Thank you for reading and for reviewing. Onward we go.**

**Chapter 3**

'You need to sleep this off,' Raoul growled, absolute fury coursing through his veins. He had truly had enough and was not sure how much more he could take of his brothers reckless antics.

Blood shot eyes peered up at him from under an oily fringe. 'I have something to tell you,'

Raoul took a breath, calmed himself. He was not a man prone to losing his temper and was certainly not going to become one now. Despite the trials and tribulations, he prided himself on being a gentleman and that was exactly what he planned to continue to be. Philippe did test his resolve, though, far more than was normal.

Or _welcome_, for that matter.

He steeled himself… _What doesn't kill us only makes us stronger_, he thought.

'You need to sleep,' he repeated, with less anger, as if saying it a second time would prompt any form of recognition from his older brother.

Philippe simply slumped back heavily into the seat. 'We can talk,' he persisted but it came out in a god awful slur that sounded more like '_weesh can tall'._

'Later,' Raoul insisted, palm up, the gesture of peace.

'Coffee?' Philippe asked, green eyes pleading and clearly now unable to form complete sentences.

Raoul just shook his head.

He loved his older brother, had always looked up to him, but this was just _too_ _much_. Seeing him this way was not only infuriating but utterly heartbreaking. His once hero reduced to nothing more than a two bit drunk. The memories of them as boys, fooling around, making fun of one another… his brother standing up to would be bullies like some hero.

He could see no hero sitting in front of him now. He was struggling to see any man at all, under the filth and stench of booze.

'Sleep,' Raoul persevered none the less, as strode to the cupboard, grabbing some blankets and throwing them at Philippe. They landed on him, covering his face. Philippe made absolutely no attempt to catch them and, furthermore, made no attempt to move them now they were resting on his head.

If it had been anyone else at any other time, Raoul suspected that he might even have found the whole thing quite amusing.

He walked over and knocked the blankets into Philippe's lap.

He was smiling, 'Can't I…'

'Philippe, _please_,' Raoul despaired. 'My family are here and I don't want Benoit to see you looking like this.'

Philippe looked down at his own body, taking it in. 'What's wrong with me?' he asked when he glanced back up and Raoul could see from the look in his brother's eyes that Philippe genuinely could not see anything amiss.

Their father would have been deeply ashamed and their mother heartbroken. Perhaps it was not such a bad thing that they were gone, at least they did not have to see him this way, their pride and joy.

Raoul was tempted to point out the obvious to him but instead, chose against fighting, as he so often did and said, 'You need to sleep, when you wake up after some rest… well… we can talk,'

Philippe's eyes lolled in his head slightly and then, with some effort, refocused. 'I love you,' he said.

Raoul nodded. Under normal circumstances Philippe maintained what he thought was a healthy control of his emotions, never one to admit when he was hurt or angry, or to tell his siblings that he cared, he simply remained aloof. However, when he had been drinking he became affectionate.

Philippe bent forward to untie his shoes but could not keep his balance and so, with a sigh, Raoul knelt down and carefully undid his brother's shoes before slipping them off and setting them aside.

'Your jacket,' Raoul said as he stood back up. Philippe struggled but managed to remove it and hand it to Raoul.

Although he was tempted to take it out into the yard and burn it, he thought better of the idea and hung it over the back of one of the hard backed chairs. Philippe's eyes drooped, only slightly, and Raoul gently lifted his brother's feet onto the couch.

The protests were gone now and Philippe rested his head on the cushion and allowed Raoul to tuck the blanket around him. 'Try to sleep,' he said.

'You were always a good boy,' Philippe said and he tugged the blanket up to his chin.

Raoul was about to respond before he saw that his brother's eyes were tightly closed and his breathing had evened into the gentle rhythm of sleep. For a moment he thought about doing what he always did when Philippe nodded off on him, and that was to simply leave, but this time something stopped him. Instead of walking out he pulled up one of the spare chairs and sat opposite his brother.

Slowly he realised that this was the only time he ever saw Philippe looking at peace and he decided that the moment was so rare, that he would sit… if only for a little while.

* * *

Mrs Kelly was the type of woman that many young children found completely intimidating. She knew this about herself, with her broad shoulders and wide hips, stern, hard set face and icy eyes, she looked quite the formidable character. Occasionally, she could use this to her advantage with her pupils and when the time called for it she did not hold it back. She was not blessed with the good looks of a lot of women or with their demur natures but God had given her a brain.

She had never met a child who did not shrink away from her when she entered a room or crawl into themselves when her booming voice shouted. It was not something to make someone proud, but she had made more than her fair share of children cry. This was at least the case until she had met Benoit De Changy.

She watched him now, as he worked away at his study book, behaving as he usually did. Never had she known a child so fearless and yet so polite with it. In her experience, and this was a vast well of knowledge, young boys who were fearless were also arrogant and rude. Benoit was neither of these things and yet he had every right to be. He was young and privileged, dark hair and blue eyes would no doubt serve him well in the future and aside from this he was probably the most intelligent boy she had ever taught.

Rarely did she have to repeat herself or order to him to read something again more carefully. His English was excellent, better than hers at times she thought, and he absorbed the lessons almost more quickly than she could actually give them. Every week they were moving to a new topic and Mrs Kelly worried that soon she would run out of history to teach him.

He glanced up from his book, blue eyes twinkling under the morning sun. He looked capable of mischief, she had no doubt, and yet he chose to conduct himself like a little gentleman. She knew grown men who were less astute and courteous than this young boy and it was always a pleasure to some to work.

'I'm finished,' he said, holding the book open and looking pleased.

'Already?' she asked, although she wasn't really surprised.

He nodded and handed her the book across the table. When she took it from his she said, 'Why don't you read the next chapter of the text and I will go through your work?'

Something crossed his eyes but was gone so quickly she wondered if she had imagined it. 'Very well,' he said politely and lifted the text.

She watched him for a moment longer, wondering how it was that some parents could barely control their children and others, like the De Chagnys, barely had to try at all. She lifted her pencil and began reading his work, making ticks where she was happy with what he had written.

'When I have finished marking this,' she said, without looking up from the book. 'We can call it a day, I think. It's beautiful out and you have worked very hard,'

'Thank you,' he said and although he did not look up, she knew that he was smiling. She could hear it in his voice.

She had never had any children of her own because her marriage to Mr Kelly had been cut so tragically short. Now, looking at Benoit, she wondered what their children would have looked like. She wondered whether they would have been a mixture of boys and girls or just one or the other. How well behaved would her own children be, how kind and polite, how hard working… she swallowed away her sadness and placed a last tick at the bottom of the page.

She cleared her throat, 'Well done, Benoit,'

The boy looked up and gave her the briefest of smiles, 'Thank you,'

'Do you have any other lessons today?' she asked, as she handed the book back to him across the table.

'Music,' he replied. 'This afternoon,'

'I'm sorry, I didn't realise you played an instrument,' she said and then added, out of simple curiosity, 'Which do you learn?'

He frowned at her as if he didn't quite understand the question. 'What do you mean?' he asked.

'Which instrument do you play?'

'Oh, I play more than one,' he said and at least then she understood his confusion. 'Don't all children?'

She smiled, 'No, Benoit, usually children of your age are only capable of learning one instrument at a time,'

Again his brow furrowed. 'I play the piano, mostly, but I do love to play the violin,'

She was about to speak when he added, 'I enjoy the cello too, although I don't have as much fun as with the piano,'

Amazed she simply smiled. 'I'm sure your parents are very proud of you, Benoit,' she said as she packed her booked into the satchel she carried.

Benoit began passing her pencils and paper, helping her stack things neatly so that she could easily slip them into her bag. He was the only one of her pupils that did this.

'My mother loves music,' he said, as he handed her the last pile of papers. She tucked it into the bag and clipped the buckle.

She hooked the strap of the satchel over her shoulder, 'It's very good to have a hobby,'

'It isn't a hobby,' he said sternly. 'She was the greatest singer in the whole of Paris,'

This made Mrs Kelly chuckle slightly. All boys loved their mothers and it was only really at times like these that she remembered that Benoit was only just short of nine years old. His enthusiasm when he spoke of her was heart warming but all children had the tendency to embellish. She did not know much about music and would never claim to, but she was pretty sure that Mrs De Changy was not the greatest singer in the whole of Paris.

'I'm sure she is very grateful to you for saying that,' she said as she opened the door. Benoit followed and when she turned to face him that look of confusion was back on his face. She was about to comment when Mrs De Changy entered the hallway, looking as graceful as ever.

'Done so soon,' she said as her hand found her son's hair and ruffled it messy.

'Yes,' Mrs Kelly said. 'I hope you don't mind, but he has done so well today I thought it would be a treat for him to finish early,'

Benoit looked up at his mother and grinned, 'Beach?'

She rolled her eyes. 'Yes, go on, get yourself ready,'

With that he turned on his heel and was gone in a flash.

'He likes the beach, then?' she said, turning to Mrs De Changy.

She smiled, 'You could say that,'

* * *

**A/N2: There are 16 and a half pre written chapters for this. The aim is that by the end of this week there will be 4 posted chapters (hopefully) and 18 written. Wish me luck!**

**Just to re-iterate- **_**patience**_** is the key here. **


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Used names from one of my favourite TV shows in this. They are not the same characters however, I just wanted to use the names.

**Chapter 4**

It was a classic spring day. Not too hot but not too cold either and there was some moisture in the air, like it could rain at any moment but probably wouldn't. Jack Aldridge used his spare key to open the back door and slipped into the house, hanging his hat on the coat stand when he walked in. The hallway was dark, as usual, and he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light.

Slowly, as his eyes got used to dimness of the room, he slid his coat off and hung it with his hat, before wandering through to the kitchen. It smelt of baking and was always the lightest room in the house. He let his lungs fill with the scent of the bread as he walked through the dining area, into the living room, and then to the closed door of the study.

Jack rarely had any qualms about the way he earned his money or who he worked with, no job was too dirty and no job was too much. When he was a boy he would stay out into the small hours of the morning, as the night dipped black and the crooks came out to play. Once Samantha, a young girl from the same block as him and the girl he was destined to love and lose, had asked him why he chose to spend all of his time outside in the dark when it was so dangerous. He remembered looking at her with such awe that day, her innocence almost overwhelmed him, because she could live a life that involved parents who loved and protected her.

The simple answer to her question was that it was much safer, actually, for him to be out with the criminals and in the underworld than it was for him to be at home. That the sight of his face was enough to send his father into such a rage that he would pummel Jack until he could barely breathe.

Until _either_ of them could barely breathe.

His mother often looked like she might like to help, her eyes were like a deer's, so wide and dark… and afraid. She never did help him, of course, his father had enough fists and feet for the both of them and Jack was resilient, enough, she had thought. Sometimes, Jack could even pretend that he understood how his mother could let her husband beat their only child.

Jack didn't tell Samantha all of this, obviously, what would she have thought of him if he had confessed it? Instead, he just told her that he preferred the danger and he preferred the dark, and in a lot of cases, this was pretty much the truth. He couldn't really stand the thought of her feeling sorry for him, of _anyone _feeling sorry for him, for that matter, and he liked it much better when they started to fear him.

Not Samantha though. _Never_ her.

Although he didn't want her to feel sorry for him he had never wanted her to fear him either, all he wanted…

He shook his head, shook the thoughts out and glanced up at the study door. For a moment he was lost and it took him a few minutes to remember where he was and what he was doing there.

His mother had always called him a day dreamer.

Jack glanced down at his clenched fist and, with a deep breath, used it to knock on the study door. Knock first, he thought, never, _ever_, just walk in.

He waited until his boss' voice boomed out from the other side, 'Who is it?'

'It's Jack, Mr Schwarz,' he said, swallowing.

'Well, come in then,' Mr Schwarz returned, almost sounding exasperated. The man had the nature of a hungry bear.

As always, Schwarz didn't even turn to look at him, just said, 'What have you got for me?'

'I think we've might have a deal,' Jack replied, feeling more confident now. Work was good, work kept him going, no matter how underhanded, no matter how disgusting… it didn't matter to Jack. In his line of work, he was the best.

'You _think_,' Schwarz repeated.

'He says he will need to clear it with his brother first,' Jack explained, not feeling quite so sure of himself but none the less pleased.

'How was he when you left him?' Schwarz asked.

'A little worse for wear,' Jack responded. 'But I made sure he got to his brother's house just fine,'

Silence surrounded him and, just for a moment, Jack worried that he might have done something wrong. Jack considered himself a man of little fear; he had spent too many years fighting and dodging the law to be any different. He did not deny that he was ruthless, that he could kill if necessary, that he thought nothing of stealing, fighting and conning. He knew that he was not a man with many desirable qualities and yet his fearlessness was something he was truly proud of.

Well, until he stood in _this_ room with _this_ man.

This man that made his knees tremble almost as his father had, this man who sent the fear of God through him just by speaking, this man who could do terrible, _horrible_ things without blinking an eye. Sometimes, Jack was not sure whether it was complete terror he felt or whether it was a mix of dread and admiration.

'Good,' Schwarz finally said, and it was only that then Jack realised that he had been holding his breath. 'Go back tonight, press the position,'

Jack swallowed. 'Aren't you worried that we will push him… the other way?'

'No,' Schwarz said, simply and to Jack's surprise, without anger. 'There is a payment for you on the kitchen table and some extra, for tonight,'

'Thank you, boss,' he said sounding all of the New Yorker that he was. He hated the damn accent, especially when he spoke to Mr Schwarz with his fancy voice, and wished he knew how to get rid of it. Saying that though, he wouldn't want to stand out too much, not in his line of work.

Without another word he left the study and clicked the door closed behind him. In the kitchen he found the envelope stuffed with dollars and smiled, tucking it into his pocket, he didn't dare count it in case he was being watched. It wasn't so much that he might encourage a mugger, but more that he wouldn't want to insult Mr Schwarz… ever.

After he had grabbed his coat and hat from the stand, he crept out through the back door and made sure that it was firmly locked behind him.

Home, planning, work… it was true what they said;

There really was no rest for the wicked.

* * *

When Philippe woke up, he found himself covered in a soft, white blanket and was lying in what looked like his brother's parlour room. He pushed himself up from the pillow and lurched forward as he felt his head do a quick spin, sending nausea and throbbing through his whole body. Slowly, he sat himself up right and leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose in the hopes that it might help his eyes focus.

He couldn't remember getting to Raoul's home but he remembered everything leading up to that and his excitement buoyed him so that he found the energy to stand and tug his shoes on. He saw his jacket resting over the back of one of the chairs and slung it over his shoulder, then set off in search of Raoul.

When he stepped out into the hallway, he noticed that the house was unusually quiet and wondered where everyone was. He made his way through the dining room and kitchen until he heard the sound of the piano in the area that Raoul called, 'Family room'. Opening the door without knocking he found Christine sitting on the stool, gently playing with the keys on the instrument.

He coughed loudly.

When she turned she did not look particularly surprised to see him there and said, without pause, 'If you find Helen, she will make you a drink,'

Philippe did not respond.

'Coffee, perhaps?' she asked but her eyes were dark and angry as they glared at him across the room.

He ignored her question, as he often did. 'Where is Raoul?'

'Out,' she said and clearly didn't deem in necessary to elaborate.

He waited a moment and when it became clear that Christine was going to tell him no more, he said, 'Where?'

'With Benoit,' Christine replied, still not really answering the question. She stared at him, eyes hard and as cold as he had ever seen them. If his head wasn't aching so much, he would probably have found it funny. 'He will see you tomorrow, no doubt,'

'When will they be back?' he prompted, his patience starting to wear thin. Still, no matter how sharp or curt he was with her, she held no fear and often gave as good as she got. This was the way their relationship was and had always been.

He was content with it.

'Later,' she answered simply.

He laughed, 'And I have outstayed my welcome,' he said, and the look in her eyes confirmed just that.

Knowing that there was little point in debating the matter further, he left Christine to her own devices and headed home. The journey was not a long one and the spring morning was warm and pleasant, so he decided against sending for a cab, choosing instead to walk and shake away the cobwebs.

Once at home he washed and put on fresh clothes, ate a little of what he considered breakfast but what most would see as lunch, and then read through the papers he had been given the previous night. Happy with his understanding of the potential agreement, he filed the documents and managed to grab another hour of sleep, so that he was prepared for the night ahead.

At seven that evening there was a sharp knock at his door and when he opened it he was surprised to see his new acquaintance, Jack Aldridge, standing in front of him. Smiling he invited the small, stocky man inside.

Jack smiled, 'I was thinking we could grab some dinner. Perhaps discuss business matters over a glass of wine,'

Philippe eyed him carefully, sceptical at first. Partly because he had only known the man barely a few weeks, partly because he knew he should stay in… and partly because he simply could not afford it.

'My treat, of course,' Jack grinned. It was a grin that did not reach his eyes and although Philippe knew, deep down, that this should worry him, he ignored it all the same. 'Well, the boss' anyway,'

Philippe thought for a moment but he knew already that the decision had been made in his gut. He could rarely resist a glass of wine, and a free one at that, considering the investment the man wanted, it might turn out to be a full bottle… _or two_.

'Let me get my coat,' Philippe said, leaving the door open so that Jack could step into the hallway.

'Nice place you got here,' Jack commented, as Philippe tried to find a suitable coat.

'Thank you,' he mumbled.

'No wife?' Jack asked, and Philippe could feel the other man's eyes on his back. It sent a chill through him, but he dismissed the sensation and finally found the brown coat he was looking for.

'Er… no,' Philippe replied, slipping the coat over his shoulders.

'Good choice,' Jack said, as he turned and walked towards the door.

Philippe was confused for a moment and asked, 'The coat?'

Jack turned to him, this time his eyes twinkling with amusement. 'No. Not having a wife,'

Philippe closed the door behind him and checked the deadlock, 'Um, yes, I suppose,'

'You suppose,' Jack said and although it was not a question, Philippe felt compelled to speak anyway.

'Well, yes, I'm not sure really, I have nothing to compare it to,'

'Your brother's wife, perhaps?'

Philippe shook his head. 'I told you, she makes him happy. She might be a pain in my neck and she might be a little lower in the social standing than I would like but she _does_ make him happy,'

'Not all women can make their husbands happy,' Jack said as they walked along the cobbled street.

'Do you speak from experience?' Philippe asked, curious.

Jack either did not hear over horse's hooves and the general street traffic or he chose to ignore the question, either way Philippe never got an answer. Instead, Jack said, 'I'm looking forward to meeting her,'

'Ah, well, I haven't had chance to speak to Raoul yet… it's awkward,'

Jack looked over at him as they turned the corner to the street where Philippe's favourite restaurant was situated. 'Perhaps you could try speaking with him when you are sober,'

Philippe should have been affronted but Jack had said it in such a way that it sounded more like a gentle, considerate suggestion than a slight on his behaviour. Before he had chance to answer or think too much more about the comment, Jack clapped him on the shoulder and his grin returned.

No harm done.

Philippe said, 'He probably won't agree to it,'

As they entered the restaurant Jack's eyes sparkled roguishly in the low light. 'Then perhaps, my friend, we need to think of a way to sweeten the deal,'

* * *

_A/N: I have, for the first time in years, sat here and listened to the original cast recording of the Phantom of the Opera from start to finish… I forgot how wonderful it is. The Prologue and Overture are actually my favourite part (s) of the musical because of the way it makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. _

_Love Never Dies (Soundtrack only, I am going to see the performance 17__th__ September) has, admittedly, grown on me, but when put next to the original soundtrack it pales almost into insignificance. I'm almost worried about going to see it now… I am disappointed with the soundtrack and fear I am going to get my heart utterly broken by the play- and not in a good way_

_I believe there will be some tweaks made to sound and script before it makes it to Broadway… Perhaps I might need to do some travelling?_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I don't want any American readers to take offence to Raoul's views. Please remember who he is and where he is from! I am aware of the Metropolitan Opera Association but lets for a second pretend it doesn't exist, I like to be reasonably historically accurate and it could be argued that this did not bring opera to the masses of America. I don't think it was affordable until well into the 1900s. 

**Chapter 5**

There was very little that Christine loved more than the sweet, sorrowful sound of a pianos key. It was a difficult art to master and, after many years of toiling at the skill, she still could not claim to be even close to masterful at it. Still, when her fingers played along the keys, feeling the cool ivory beneath their tips and hearing the pure tones from the piano, she could simply close her eyes and get lost in the moment.

Her father had been a magnificent violinist, brilliant until his last breath, and had always encouraged her to learn the instrument. It had not been her choice though, and, like her mother had been before they lost her, Christine found herself drawn to the sombre, yet beautiful, notes of the piano. When she thought of those years, long ago, she remembered them with such a mixture of emotions that it was hard to discern which one was most prominent.

Thoughts of her father filled her with pride and a feeling she had only just come to realise was bitterness. She had loved him dearly, clung to him after her mother had passed on, and yet he was taken from her too before she reached her maturity. Christine always remembered him with fondness and love, with pride, what made her bitter was the lack of recognition he got for his brilliance while he was alive. Only in death did people revere him and that still did not drag her from the poor house.

Not that it mattered, the money that is. Losing him was far worse, and the pride and bitterness were no match for the distress she felt when she he was gone.

Unlike other children, even richer children than she, she did not have a terrible upbringing. The death of her mother, though a sickening blow, had not meant her father turned to alcohol or women to ease his troubled heart… No, he had been a model father and a wonderful man.

It was through her father that she had met the De Changys, some years before they became patrons at the Opera Populaire, and had fallen in love with Raoul… even if she had not known it at the time.

During her teenage years she travelled with her father all around Europe but it had been four years, up to her Operatic debut, since the last time she had seen Raoul.

She owed much to her father.

When the clank of the door knocker sounded she let out a sigh and rose to greet her brother in law. Having a cook and maid was one thing, but she and Raoul both felt that, given the circumstances, a butler was simply a step too far. When the door cracked open, Philippe's smile fell from his face. Clearly, he had been expecting one of the two male De Changy's to answer the door to him.

Oh, well.

'Is Raoul home?' he asked, and had clearly been drinking although was in a far better state than the one he had materialised in that morning.

She nodded and, through tightly gritted teeth, said, 'He is waiting for you in the study,'

Philippe brushed past her into the hallway, much to her irritation, and said, 'I didn't tell him I was coming here this evening, did I?'

She closed the door and led him through the hall way. 'I believe you told him that the two of you needed to talk,' she said, though the thought of conversing with him for much longer sent ripples of frustration through her body. 'You have something to tell him,'

'Ah, yes,' Philippe smiled, innocent, _butter would not melt._

Christine had never got along well with her brother in law and she would never forgive him for trying to block their marriage all those years ago. Her dislike of him was so fierce that if she knew that he would be visiting she would find an excuse to make herself scarce. It was something a wife should be ashamed of and yet it never bothered her.

Over the years they had come to an uneasy truce and because it was in the family's best interests for them to get on, they fell into an unspoken agreement to remain civil to one another. Lately, this long agreement was being tested to its limits and at the moment, even the sight of his face was enough to cause bubbles of anger to simmer in her stomach.

When she looked up, Philippe was staring at her, 'Aren't you going to ask me how I am?'

She glared.

'It's only proper,' he suggested with a shrug. The way he often did, as if he could not understand what her problem was, as if _he_ was the absolute model of graciousness.

'I can see how you are,' she said, attempting to keep her voice light and friendly but failing miserably.

He shrugged and stepped closer to her. 'And how am I?'

She could smell wine on his breath and had to force herself to stand still instead of backing away from him. 'Drunk,' she said simply, all pretence now well and truly done with.

Philippe's smile was hollow and his eyes showed pure scorn. 'I am not drunk,'

'Pleasant change,' she said.

The smile vanished and she saw the muscles in his jaw bunch. Before he could speak or spit toxins in her direction she held her hand up, 'Raoul is through there,'

Angry, though he was, he forced another smile and turned his back to her. 'And to think,' he said. 'I am only trying to help,'

Without further explanation he opened the door to the study and stepped inside, closing it gently behind him.

* * *

Aside from the bedroom, the study was Raoul's favourite room in the house. He knew that Christine liked the balcony, Benoit the family room… but he loved the study. He wasn't quite sure what it was. Sometimes he thought that it was because the room was at the back of the house and, therefore, quiet but mostly he thought it was because of the normalcy of the room.

He sat in the chair and looked around him, at the desk and the books piled on top of it and others stored neatly into cases. There were pens and ink, pencils, papers and bills. It was so normal. In the study, with his view only of the other houses, he could be absolutely anywhere in the world and so often he chose to imagine that he was back in the study of the family home in Paris.

It had been a turbulent two years in America and he often sat in the study alone, with his view of bricks and nothing more, and pretended that this place was no different to France. It was though. It was a huge and rambling country, with a language that was not quite English but nothing else either, and accents that were so difficult to understand he struggled to even make polite conversation at the local grocers.

That was another thing about America. The food and the people. He liked neither, generally, but really only because he did not quite understand it. To him the food was unrefined and the people uncouth. There was a lot to be said for inhibitions and many of the people he met in his new home barely even knew what the word meant let alone had any. It was a land of unreserved pleasure, as far as he could see, and that was all very well and good until it wasn't. It damaged the moral fibre of society.

It wasn't as though he did not try. He spoke to his wife in French and English but they had agreed that English was best for Benoit, if this was going to be their home. He attempted conversation but people spoke so fast, in the end he usually ended up smiling and leaving whatever establishment he had ended up in.

It had been Philippe's idea, the move to America. He had made a few contacts through a lawyer friend of his and when he was told of all of the opportunities he had jumped at the chance, convincing Raoul that it was right for all of them. Now all that Raoul was left with was a brother who has lost his own inhibitions, bills that were mounting and the guilt of having moved his family to such an unfamiliar and frightening place.

Christine, of course, took all of this in her stride as she always did. She was kind to people, had already got a firm grasp of English and made friends easily. Not once did she complain about the move or Raoul's inability to find work. Never did she bemoan the dwindling funds or her husband's constant carping about Philippe.

She had offered to sing, offered to move back home, offered to work… when it was he who should be the provider.

And then there was Benoit. Raoul had never known a boy so intelligent and eager as his son. The language had become second nature to him and he found it easy to converse with others of all ages. In fact, he was leaving Raoul behind in his dust.

He sighed when he heard voices outside the study door.

Philippe was here and even though they probably thought he could not hear them speaking, he heard basically every word. Even Christine was starting to get fed up of his drinking and irresponsible behaviour.

When the door opened Raoul stood to greet his brother, although he had sincerely hoped that he would not come. In his hand was an envelope and although it was clear he had been drinking, he was not nearly as drunk as the last time they had seen each other.

However, if Raoul had expected an apology for his earlier behaviour he was to be sorely disappointed. Philippe shook his hand firmly and made his way to the closed cabinet in the corner. Raoul rolled his eyes as his brother liberated a bottle of brandy and poured them both a healthy size glass of the potent drink.

'Do you think that is a good idea?' Raoul asked, staring at him.

Philippe frowned. 'Brandy is always a good idea,'

'Perhaps you should take it easy tonight,' Raoul suggested.

'But we are in the land of the free, my friend,' Philippe grinned, ear to ear. 'And whilst we are here we should behave as the natives do,'

'Not all of the people here drink themselves into nightly stupors,'

'Me?' Philippe put his hand across his heart, pretending to be affronted. 'I'm just enjoying the extended holiday,'

'This isn't a holiday,' Raoul said, feeling like the spoil sport once more.

Philippe downed his brandy and poured another. 'No, you're right,' he nodded. 'And that is why I am here to see you,'

Raoul sighed and sat down, taking a small sip of his brandy and savouring the beautiful, oaky flavour. This was how people were supposed to enjoy alcohol, slowly and gently, taking in the mixture of flavours… not drinking it in barrels and falling out of public houses at all hours of the evening.

After swallowing a second glassful of brandy, Philippe poured himself another tot and sat opposite. 'I've had a business proposition,'

Raoul somehow refrained from rolling his eyes. Another supposed money spinner, another few thousand dollars down the pit. 'I think the family has quite enough investments for the time being,' he said, as tactfully as he could manage.

'I think this one will interest you,' Philippe handed him the brown envelope.

Raoul stared down at it in his hands. 'Tell me what it is,'

'A friend of mine,' Philippe explained. 'Jack Aldridge, works for a guy…'

'_Guy_?' Raoul asked.

Philippe rolled his eyes, 'A _gentleman_ that owns several theatres in New York… he is looking to open another, has already purchased the building…'

'I'm not interested,' Raoul said. 'And you shouldn't be either,'

'Listen to me first, before making a decision,' Philippe insisted. 'He wants to open one, a magnificent one, to showcase opera to the Americans,'

'And this… gentleman, what is his name and is he not American?'

'Schwarz, and I believe he is German,' Philippe replied. 'But that is by the by. Anyway, when I was talking to Jack the first night I met him he recognised my name…'

Raoul frowned. 'Yes, as all Americans would,' he said sarcastically.

'Such a cynic,' Philippe said without anger. 'Jack is a music fan and recognised the De Changy part of my name not because of our status in France but because of your wife,'

Raoul nodded for him to keep talking.

'Well, of course, I told him that you were here with me and of our time as patrons,' Philippe continued. 'And he is anxious to meet you. He went back to his boss and told him about this whole thing and they came up with a business proposition,'

Raoul glanced down at the envelope.

'Read,' Philippe prompted.

Reluctantly, Raoul tore open the top of the envelope and took out eh neatly crafted pages. He read that the theatre company, Verkleiden, was proposing to open one more theatre for the purpose of bringing opera to the masses of America. For an investment of four thousand dollars the company would refurbish the old building and turn it into a magnificent theatre, giving it the name of the De Changy's choice. On their investment, they would then get a return of around thirty percent of the turnover, but not of the business, only of the new theatre.

He read to the bottom, the only other significant clause was that should Christine De Chagny sing for the first year, they would earn fifty percent of turnover.

'If he is such a successful businessman, why can't he afford to refurbish the theatre himself?' he asked, when he finally looked up from the booklet.

'Jack tells me that he can,' Philippe replied. 'And having seen that his theatres sell out every night, I can vouch for them himself,'

'Then why does he want our financial backing?'

Philippe smiled, 'It is less about our financial backing and more about our expertise in the subject,'

'Then could he not just hire us?'

Philippe rolled his eyes. 'He needs patrons, visible backers, people to help run the show and this is a great investment. I thought I did well talking about into letting us take such a large percentage,'

'You asked for fifty percent?'

'Actually no,' Philippe said. 'They offered twenty and rising to fifty if Christine sings. I asked for thirty, they agreed,'

'Have we signed anything yet?'

Philippe shook his head, 'No, it needs Christine's signature first, I insisted,'

Raoul did not believe this for a second and thought it more likely that the businessman behind the offer had probably included this clause, as he would not want to lose her once she started a term with the theatre.

'What do you think?' Philippe asked, eyes pleading with Raoul.

He reread the agreement and sighed. 'It certainly looks like a legitimate offer,'

Philippe nodded with enthusiasm.

'I will speak to Christine,'

'Talk her around,'

This time it was Raoul's turn to roll his eyes.

* * *

_A/N: I was hoping to make Christine a little stronger in this. It is 9 years later, she has married, had a child, moved to America… she has grown, as people do. I'm hoping that she isn't too horribly out of character but hope that you can appreciate that over time, people change._


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews, as always. Individual replies will follow soon.**

**Chapter 6**

Raoul had been in possession of the contract and detailed agreement for two days before he found the right time to talk to Christine about its contents. It was Friday morning and, after nearly forty-eight hours of nonstop rain, the sun was finally making a glorious appearance. He found Christine in the dining room reading an old, leather backed book bathed in the magnificent glow of the spring sunshine which was beaming in through the open windows.

She looked up and smiled with one eyebrow lifted, 'You're giving me a very strange look,'

He smiled back, 'I won't apologise for staring at you,' he said, sighing inwardly. 'You look beautiful today,'

Raoul was secretly pleased when he saw the blush creep into her cheeks, he was glad he could still flatter her, glad that their marriage was still happy and full of love. He had seen so many of his friends marriages turn into an entity that was nothing short of farcical because they had taken one another for granted or because the marriage had never been a good idea in the first place.

With Christine, although they did not always agree, things were different and he was constantly reminded of how lucky he was to have been the one to win her heart.

'You say that every day,' she said, placing the book open on the table, but the smile did not disappear from her lips.

He walked up behind her and kissed the top of her head. 'That's because you're beautiful every day,' he said quietly, and he meant it. 'What are you reading?' he asked, sitting down by her side and tilting the chair towards her.

Christine placed her marker in the book and closed the covers. 'Treasure Island,' she said as she placed her hand over his. 'Are you alright?'

'Yes, yes,' he replied and then blurted, 'I actually wanted to talk to you about something Philippe brought to me,'

Raoul saw the change in her expression, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her lips pulled together… _just a little_. 'Has he done something?' she asked. He knew that she tried to stay neutral and he knew how difficult it was for her because of the way Philippe had reacted to their marriage. She tried for his sake and for that he would be eternally grateful.

'No, not yet,' he managed a grin. 'Which is novel in its self, isn't it?'

The comment drew a smile, if only a small one.

'He has received a business proposition from a company called Verkleiden, have you heard of them?' he asked and when Christine shook her head he continued. 'Neither had I, when Philippe first brought the information to me.'

She nodded and Raoul felt uncharacteristically, and unreasonably, nervous. When he talked of it he felt a twitch in his stomach and had to force himself to focus. Perhaps it was that he actually liked one of Philippe's ideas but did not want to pressure Christine. _Who knew?_

'I've done some research, managed to ask a few questions,' he explained. 'They are a Manhattan based company functioning out of that huge building you can see from just about everywhere. Now, it seems they are simply an entertainment firm… but the owner has a particular penchant for theatre and owns several on Broadway,'

For the first time since Raoul had mentioned Philippe's name, he saw a genuine smile on Christine's face, 'It certainly sounds like an interesting company,'

Raoul returned her smile tenfold, 'As it happens, the owner of the company… a er… Mr Schwarz… wants to open another theatre, only this time, he wants to focus on _opera_. He has already purchased the building but it needs work…'

'Mr Schwarz wants investment,' Christine said, beating him to the punch.

Raoul nodded and squeezed her hand, 'You know how I feel about Philippe's schemes but I genuinely think this one has some potential,'

Christine did not look convinced and said, 'So, how did he end up involved in this…'

'Well, he isn't involved,' Raoul answered quickly. 'Not yet anyway. He had made a new acquaintance, Jack someone, a while back and one evening they were talking about us and it clicked with Jack that we must be the De Changy's from the Opera Populaire,'

'Right…'

'Well, Jack went back to the company and told them what he had learnt, knowing about the new project,' Raoul continued. 'The next time Philippe and Jack met, an offer had materialised,'

'And what is the offer?' Christine asked.

'Before I tell you that,' Raoul said, feeling Christine's scepticism. 'Let me tell you that I found out that Verkleiden has made profits of over a million dollars in these last five years, since it was established here,'

'A _million_ dollars?'

Raoul nodded. 'The company is completely profit making, _hugely_, in fact,'

'So, why the need for our investment?' Christine asked the logical question.

'That's exactly what I said to Philippe,'

'And the answer?'

'_Expertise_,' he said. 'For one. The company has dealt with theatre, _not_ opera, and although Jack and Mr Schwarz have a keen interest in opera, neither would know where to start in building an opera house and reputation to rival those in Italy and France,'

'And this is what they want to do, is it?' Christine asked. 'Rival the greats?'

Raoul shrugged his shoulders. 'It would seem so,'

She smiled. 'Admirable… foolish, perhaps, but admirable all the same,'

'So they are asking for our investment in return for…'

'How much?' she asked.

He looked at her.

'How much investment do they hope to get from the De Changy's?'

'Four thousand dollars,'

Christine raised both eyebrows. 'That's an awful lot of money,'

'I agree,' he asked. 'But not a patch on one million… besides, we're being offered a thirty percent share of the turnover as a return and there is more,' he took her hands, looked into her eyes. 'They want you to sing,'

She stared at him without saying a word and for a moment Raoul was afraid that he had offended her. 'Sing…'

He nodded. 'If you don't want to, it's fine…'

'I haven't sung on stage in years, I would need to train…'

'If you sing for the full first year, our share rises to fifty percent and we've been assured that you will also be paid a wage,'

'Fifty percent,' she said

Again, he nodded, watching her eyes.

'What is the turnover likely to be for the Opera house?' she asked. It was a sensible question and was one that Raoul had already looked into.

'It's difficult to say as there isn't an affordable opera house within a thousand miles,' Raoul explained. 'It will either be a massive success or collapse but you will be paid your salary, at least, either way. It's an opportunity, is all I am saying. It is up to you. The deal is only agreed if it has your signature and if not then it doesn't matter,' he looked at her. 'The four theatres make around three thousand five hundred dollars a month, now they are established and popular. The seats and boxes always sell out and the company also has membership fees… meaning that they get a monthly income from members who receive news leaflets and the occasional free seat, '

Her eyes met his. 'What do you think of the contracts?'

'They look sound to me,' Raoul said honestly. He had reread the papers more times than he cared to remember, every word, every stop… he had gone over and over it, to be sure, before he brought it to her. Before he had allowed himself to be excited about the prospect. 'And if he markets the opera house in the way he marketed his theatres I am convinced we will make money. He is offering us a percentage of _turnover_, not of profit.'

'That's very generous,' she said and he could see in her eyes that she was taking it seriously and considering her options. 'It's a good opportunity,'

'It is,' he agreed.

'And when to get to meet Mr Schwarz?' she asked.

'Jack has told Philippe he will arrange a meeting but it won't be possible for at least a few months,' Raoul replied. 'Lots of operations, lots of meetings,'

She nodded.

'And besides, Jack is in charge of things from a business perspective but as patrons we will be in charge of a lot of the other things,' he said. 'Like finding a manager, and overseeing the design of the building,'

She grinned, 'Business talk at the dinner table, Vicomte, what would your family say?'

He leaned over and kissed her softly. 'It is up to you, you know? I will support whatever decision you make,'

'But you're excited about this,' she said gently, touching her hand to his. The softness of her skin made him want to sigh. 'I see it in your eyes,'

'I will admit it,' he said. 'But it makes no difference,'

'I will need time to practice,'

'The building is not nearly ready yet,' he said. 'You will have more than enough time to prepare yourself,'

'Do they even know what they are hoping to open with?' she asked.

'Jack thought perhaps Faust or Carmen,' Raoul said. 'But the final decision is up to us… well, it's up to _you_,'

'Could I see the papers?' she asked.

Most men would probably have been offended by this request, after all, the men tended to deal with things like this but Raoul did not see it that way. He was proud that his wife was educated and bright and so he quickly fetched the contracts and waited patiently while she read them.

When she had reread them twice she looked up, 'They look fair,' she said. 'But not easy to get out of,'

Raoul nodded. 'That was the one thing that bothered me… the clause at the bottom,'

'If I agree to sing I am tied in for the full year,' she said. 'Although I can break the contract it will reduce the following month's returns to two percent of profit only,'

Again, he took her soft hands in his and kissed her knuckles. 'And yet if the opera house is as successful as the theatres, even if you pull out we will have our money without many problems,'

'It's a huge drop from fifty percent of turnover to two percent of profit,'

'Only if there is a break in the contract,' Raoul said. 'We can do this for thirty percent without need for you to opt in at all but I just have a feeling you would enjoy it,'

'I think…' she stopped and sighed. 'I have missed it, the opera,'

'I know,' he said, squeezing her hand. 'And we could end up making back a large amount of the money that Philippe lost, not only that but you would be paid for your time as well,'

'Would you be happy with this?' she asked, a little cryptically, because her eyes were asking questions that neither of them dared voice.

It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it. He had spent two full days reading the contracts and thinking about the last time that they were patrons of an Opera House. He was more worried about Christine's memories than his own though and so, he smiled and said, 'Yes, I would love to hear you singing again,'

With that all of the fear, the trepidation, all of the worry disappeared from her face and she leapt up and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. 'Oh Raoul!'

He couldn't help but smile. 'And Benoit can finally see why his mother is one of the most respected and revered divas ever,'

Her grin was infectious and as she signed the papers, he simply watched her, amazed by her beauty and enveloped in her warmth. For once it seemed that Philippe had actually come upon a decent proposition, a good business deal and one that would not only make them some money but would also make Raoul's wife incredibly happy.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Apologies for only one update this week. I have been snowed under. Anyway, lets get this show on the road!**

**Chapter 7**

The night was warm and the air smelled of wet leaves and victory. Jack sat opposite Philippe, in a restaurant just on the outskirts of Brooklyn, as Philippe devoured a chunk of virtually raw beef. The sight of it was enough to almost turn Jack's stomach and he wasn't sure if he was bothered more by the bloody steak or by the way Philippe was shovelling down his neck.

Between them was the signed contract, and jack reached down to pick it up, 'This is great news,' he said, feigning a little enthusiasm. 'The boss will be pleased, what a great venture to be getting involved in together, my friend,'

Jack was not Philippe's friend, of course, although the Comte did not know this. Jack was no one's friend, not really. It was safer, in his business, to keep people at arm's length but right then it suited Jack and Mr Schwarz for Philippe to think that they were best _buddies_.

'My brother is ecstatic about this,' Philippe said as juice dribbled onto his chin. Jack almost shuddered and wondered how this slob could have the audacity to call himself an aristocrat. 'Really thrilled,'

'So are we,' Jack agreed, nodding and trying not to focus on the grease smear across the other man's stubble. 'In fact, it could be the best deal we have ever brokered,'

Philippe smiled as he finally placed his fork on the plate, finished, 'I'm amazed he is giving away fifty percent,'

Jack shrugged, 'Anything to get the best on board.' he assured the other man, although knowing Schwarz as he did; he doubted that this was entirely the case. 'The boss thinks that with you guys and Christine on board with this, it will get a great reputation,'

Philippe nodded his agreement.

'And that's what we want,' Jack insisted. 'Reputation is everything in our business,'

Not so, he thought, but Philippe was basically too smashed to notice the irony in his tone.

'Besides,' he continued. 'The boss loves the opera, like me, as long as he comes out evens and you get your profit, he'll be happy,'

Philippe was nodding his head with such enthusiasm Jack briefly wondered if it was capable of popping off his neck of its own accord. Looking at him he knew that, under different circumstances, perhaps even in a different life, Philippe De Changy would be a formidable opponent. The man was tall, broad and looked wiry. Jack was sure that in there, somewhere, was a tough, ruthless man trying to escape but his luck had been such that he had found solace in the bottom of a bottle and his wits had drowned along with his spirits.

'Raoul and Christine are eager to meet Mr Schwarz,' Philippe said, taking another mouthful of wine.

Jack gave his best grin, 'All in due time,' he said with a wink. 'The boss is pretty busy right now, but he's looking forward to a meeting too. Like I said before, it's probably going to be a couple of months,'

'I know,' Philippe acknowledged, 'But I just wanted you to know that they asked,'

'Noted,' Jack said, keeping the smile plastered to his face. 'In the meantime, the building has been gutted so next week some time, we should meet with the architect to go over the building plans. To be sure you're all happy with them,'

'I can do that,'

Jack shook his head. 'No, the boss said he wants Christine's input, she knows the way things should be, she knows how it feels to be on the stage… you know, to interact with the audience,'

'She's just a woman,' Philippe said, almost scornfully.

Jack felt a minor bubble of apprehension at the statement but pushed it back to where it came from and said, 'A woman with a talent the boss has a lot of respect for,'

Philippe shrugged his broad shoulders, which sagged again on the way down.

'Don't know how much the boss would like you calling her _just a woman_,' Jack explained. 'As he has so much respect for her and all,'

The other man actually giggled. 'That doesn't worry me,'

'Maybe it should,' Jack said, unable to stop himself.

'Why is that?' Philippe asked; a stupid, wonky grin stuck to his face. 'A man with so much time for a woman's opinion sounds a bit of a sap to me.'

Jack took in a deep breath and let it out of his lungs slowly before he spoke, 'Right,' he said, trying to keep his voice on the jovial side of the emotional scale. 'We need to clear something up before you get us all in trouble. The boss, he's not the most affable guy out there. Know what I'm saying? He's a tough nut to crack and he's got a bit of a temper, alright? So, if I were you, I'd be a bit careful what you say about him… to _anyone_,'

Philippe stared at him for a long moment before feigning a shaking movement with his body and then bursting into loud fits of laughter. 'Sounds spooky,'

'I'm just giving you fair warning, that's all,'

'I'm not scared of him or anyone else,' Philippe said, 'Besides, I'm an investor, he isn't my boss,'

Jack smirked, 'He's everyone's boss,'

Philippe laughed some more, much to Jack's annoyance, and just when he was going to tell him to keep it down he saw her. Across the room, gliding past the bar, blonde hair pinned up and elegant as ever was Samantha. Just as he spotted her it was as if she sensed his eyes on her and she turned her head. Their eyes met and when neither broke away quickly, Jack thought for one magical moment that she was actually going to speak to him. He had just braced himself to stand when she turned her head sharply and walked away from him, her back as smooth and beautiful as it had ever been.

His heart was thumping hard and he somehow found the balance to stand up.

'What on earth is wrong with you?' Philippe asked, his laughter finally ceasing.

'Nothing,' Jack replied, mouth suddenly sticky, 'I just, er, I just remembered I have somewhere to be,'

Philippe frowned but swallowed it anyway, 'Alright,'

'I'll be in touch,'

He nodded.

Jack threw some money onto the table to cover the cost of the meal, grabbed the envelope with the contract and, somehow without running, fled the restaurant. He walked fast and hard until he could no longer see the building and when he rounded the next corner he slumped against the wall in an effort to calm his heart rate.

He felt like he had just seen a ghost.

* * *

The building was a huge structure set back on its own in the middle of what was otherwise a crowded street. Christine stared up at it in awe, taken aback by the gothic feel and design of the exterior and thinking it was probably the perfect building for an opera house. She wondered if the company had chosen the building because it was free, and completely by chance, or if some decision making had gone into it.

Philippe had already commented that he found it ugly and although she had somehow managed to hold back a quip, she could not help but vehemently disagree. 'It's stunning,' she said, as they walked through the entrance that did not yet have a new door.

'It's horrid, _outdated_,' Philippe said, rolling his eyes to Raoul.

Raoul stared at him. 'I like it,' he said, finally. 'I think it's ideal for its intended purpose,'

_God bless her husband. _

Philippe snorted. 'I had hoped that we might bring opera out of the dark ages,'

She sighed, loudly, because it was all she could do to restrain herself.

Raoul said, 'It's hardly in the dark ages, there are some incredibly modern opera houses all across Europe and they have had very little success, the building does not quite make the performance,'

His brother laughed.

'Perhaps you are just looking for an argument,' Raoul said and then brushed past him as a shorter man with cropped, black hair walked towards them.

Philippe grinned. 'This is Jack,' he said, hooking his arm around the smaller man's shoulders. 'Jack, meet my brother Raoul…'

Raoul extended his hand and Jack took it, shaking it at the same time as subtly brushing Philippe's arm from his shoulders. When he turned to Christine, his smile broadened. 'This must be Christine De Chagny, the star of the show,' His accent was thick New York but his voice wasn't too deep and she found herself smiling back.

'I'm not sure about star, it's been a long time,' she said. 'But I am certainly Christine De Chagny,'

'Well, Madame De Chagny, it's a pleasure,' he said, dipping his head to press his lips to the back of her hand.

'Call me Christine, please,' she said.

'Christine it is then,' Jack said. 'Follow me and I will introduce you to the architect… careful where you step,'

She lifted her foot cautiously over some debris and followed him eagerly, excited to be finally fully involved in the project she had been so looking forward to. The architect, Paul, was tall and thin, almost unnaturally so, and Christine could not help noticing the dark veins on the backs on his hands. He was pleasant though and clearly knew what he was doing, a feat that Philippe was not quite up to as he attempted to impose himself on the situation.

'I don't think that will work,' he said. All of the party; she, Raoul, Jack and the architect, looked over at him.

'What?' Paul asked, a little less than politely, but she could not blame him. It wasn't the first time he had disrupted the meeting with ridiculous comments.

Philippe was undeterred by his tone of voice, though, and said, 'The archway,'

Christine felt Raul sag at her side and when she glanced at him she was in time to see him release a silent sigh.

'I don't see what the problem is,' Raoul said, his voice strained but to the unknowing ear, civil.

'It's unnecessary,'

'It's beautiful,' Christine said.

Philippe turned to face her. 'Oh well, as long as it's _beautiful_…'

'Philippe,' Raoul interrupted firmly. 'I like the archway, it fits with the design,'

Jack nodded, 'It kind of takes you through to building, makes it flow,'

Christine gave him a knowing smile, seeing him as the peacekeeper.

'The arch stays,' the architect said.

Philippe's eyes darkened, 'I thought we were to have a say in this,'

Jack sighed. 'A say, yes, of course, but you don't get to redesign the entire thing,'

Paul smiled, 'I didn't design the arches anyway,'

They all looked over at him, expect for Jack.

'Then who did?' Philippe demanded, making a mountain out of a molehill as usual.

'Mr Schwarz did,' Paul replied. 'Therefore, they stay,'

'You all act as though this man controls you,' Philippe said.

Jack shrugged. 'He's the boss,'

'And besides, it's beautifully designed,' Christine added.

Raoul looked down at the arch design again and nodded in agreement, 'He certainly has some talents,'

Jack smiled knowingly but Christine caught a glimmer of something dark behind his eyes. 'That doesn't mean that he doesn't value your input… but he likes the arches and to be honest, so do I,'

'The arches stay,' Raoul said. 'And so do the rest of the plans, they're really very good,'

Christine could not disagree, the plans were basic but showed the way the building would open out from the entrance into a beautiful staircase, it marked where all of the archways would be and the stage was huge… perfect, really. There were _some_ detailed designs, like a drawing of the stairs and of the archways, which were intricate and stunning.

She glanced at Paul who was chewing the end of the pen in his hand. 'When will building work start?'

'Now,' he said, with a shrug.

'Oh,' she said, surprised.

'Well, you're happy with the plans and so building work can start,'

'Will you be overseeing?' she asked, as the other men looked on… Philippe clearly agitated by the fact that a mere woman was holding a conversation with a man.

Paul smiled, 'Someone needs to,'

She glanced down at the plans and then at the delicate drawing of the arch, gently she pressed her fingers to it and said, 'And when do you think it will be finished,'

'The structure of the building is perfect and has already been gutted,' Paul replied, his attention on her and only her, making it clear that he did not share the same attitude towards women as her brother in law. 'Also, the stage is already being built and the arches have been started, as they're so elaborate… because of this, I can't imagine it taking much more than a few months,'

Jack picked up the drawings. 'I'll take these to Mr Schwarz office,' he said. 'Let him look over them and get him to agree some sort of deadline for you,'

Paul nodded, still smiling but eyes showing a hint of something strange and had she known him better she might have assumed it was worry.

When Paul walked away Jack turned to her, 'We need to start getting people in place for casting and instructors for dancing,'

Raoul took her hand in his.

'The boss is sorting the orchestra, no need to worry about that but he said the De Chagny's might have some contacts for the other bits,' he continued. 'So he's leaving that to you,'

She nodded.

'Doesn't want to waste any time though,' Jack said. 'He's happy for decisions to be made now about which opera to perform and he will go ahead and commission the set design,'

'Do you know when he will need an answer for?' Raoul asked.

Jack smiled. 'How about yesterday?'


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I have tried to reply to all reviews. My apologies if you have been missed. Thank you to everyone reviewing and to all of those still reading this. This chapter is part filler, part mover. I hope you're still enjoying… **

**Chapter 8**

It felt good to be singing again. Ever since she had agreed to the project she had set some time aside, while Benoit was in his lessons, to practice and to get used to singing after all this time… and she was _enjoying_ it. She did not sing for anyone, choosing to lock herself away and practice alone, but she knew that sometimes Raoul listened at the door and she would wonder what he was thinking when he stood there. She never asked, she did not want him to know that she knew he was there but deep down she longed to hear his thoughts.

It always made her smile because whenever she stepped out of the room, Raoul was not there, but she could always catch just the softest trace of his cologne.

Jack had seen to it that there was now a conductor in place and also a vocal coach of sorts, who would work with the members of the cast… beginning with her. She now sat outside his office, not far from her home, waiting to be called in. She felt almost like a child waiting to see a headmistress and instantly hoped that her voice was up to scratch, up to _expectation_.

The door swung open and a tall, dark haired man stepped out, looked side to side and finally focused his eyes on her. 'Vicomtess de Changy,' he said, his voice accented and silky.

She stood. 'Yes,'

'Come on through,' he said, turning his back to her and leaving her standing like a fool. She stared at the space he had vacated and once the shock of his abrupt greeting had worn off she followed his path and closed the door behind her.

He had sat down next to a black piano but his posture told her that he had absolutely no intention of playing it. 'I am Ricardo Bianchi,' he finally introduced himself. 'Don't stand at the door, come in, _come_ in,'

Reluctantly she moved into the room.

Suddenly, his face softened. 'Radiant as ever,'

She blinked, surprised.

'Forgive me,' he said, placing his hand over his heart. 'You looked so different out there, in your hat and your shawl,'

'Different…'

'Yes, yes,' he nodded but then his lips twisted into a warm smile. 'I saw you once, in France,'

Their eyes met and only then did she notice how soft and kind they looked.

'So young back then,' he said. 'And yet so _gifted_,'

She felt her face grow hot, 'Thank you, Signor Bianchi,'

'How long has it been?' he asked. 'Since you last sang for someone,'

She smiled, 'I sing for my son,'

'Ah, but it is not the same,' he said. 'Will you sing for me now?'

She nodded. 'But what?'

'Whatever you think of first, let it come from your heart,' he shrugged. 'No music, no notes… from _within_,'

She could not help but smile at the Italian as she pressed her hand to her stomach, readying herself. She had been rehearsing many pieces of music but had tended to stick to those arias from Carmen, the ones she would probably be singing come opening night. It seemed logical to sing one of those now but when she opened her mouth, that was not what came out, and although she surprised herself, she continued anyway.

'_You were once my one companion, you were all that mattered, you were once my friend and father, then my world was shattered_,' she took a breath, almost stopping herself but somehow she could not and so she continued, '_Wishing you were somehow here again, wishing you were somehow near…_'

As she sang, she closed her eyes, something she rarely did, and drifted along to another place. She soared above, felt the words come from her, singing in a way she had forgotten she could.

From the heart.

* * *

Ricardo Bianchi watched as she closed her eyes and sang. Well, at least that is what most people would call it. He, however, would not call it singing. He wasn't sure what it was but the word singing suggested an act of practicality and this was not that, this was something different, something _special_.

He often thought that at the moment where a person witnesses something truly special, they would always know it. He had known it only twice in his long career. This was the second time… and the other… was the first time he had heard her sing, all of those years ago, raw and untamed.

The sound of her voice filled his ears and he, himself, felt his eyes begin to close as he allowed her voice to take him on the journey through her soul. He did not think he had ever heard anything so beautiful, nor did he think he had ever heard anything so perfect. Not one line, not one solitary note, out of tune.

When she stopped and her eyes opened again, they found his immediately.

She took a breath, 'What do you think?' she asked anxiously, looking at him. 'Where can I improve?'

He stared for a moment. 'I'm not really sure that you can,' he replied and then added. 'Where did you learn to sing that way?'

Her cheeks reddened. 'You flatter me,' she said. 'I have not sung properly in years,'

'It was perfect,' he said honestly. 'I could not find fault with it… although I don't recognise the song,'

She smiled, choosing not to answer his curiosity, 'I'm glad I didn't sound too bad, I've been worried about today,'

Ricardo smiled back at her. 'With absolutely no reason,' he assured her. 'So, which opera have you chosen?'

'Pardon?' she asked.

'For the opening,' he clarified.

'I haven't spoken to anyone yet, about the options,'

'Why would you need to do that?' he asked, a little confused. He was under the impression that it was entirely up to her.

'I need to make sure everyone is happy with whatever is decided,' she said.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Jack told me that it was your decision,'

'Mine alone?' she frowned.

He nodded. 'That is what he said,'

'Oh…'

'Perhaps… we could make the decision now and pick an aria to work on,' he suggested.

She pondered it for a moment before saying, 'Carmen, I think, well that is what I have been practicing… I have done Faust before, many times, but I would like to perform Carmen,'

He raised his palms and smiled at her. 'Then Carmen it is, decision made,'

She blinked.

'When we are finished here I will inform Jack and the conductor, then preparations can really begin,' he said.

She sang beautifully for the next hour, making very few mistakes and chastising herself when she did. They worked through some exercises and then an aria from the Opera, before she excused herself and he was left alone in his office to wonder how she had gone for so long without performing.

When the evening began to set in he left his office and walked through the town, until he arrived at the huge Verkleiden building. The security guard opened the door, forcing a smile, and waved him through. He took the rear staircase up to the top floor… which was quite the journey… and knocked at Jack Aldridge's office door.

'Come in,'

He walked through and shut the door. 'It's dark in here,'

Jack glanced up from the note he was reading. 'It's not really an office, you know,'

'I know,' Ricardo said.

'How did it go, Maestro?' he asked.

Ricardo shook his head. 'She is ready to start now,'

Jack raised an eyebrow. 'After all this time out?'

He nodded. 'She is brilliant, _quite_ brilliant,'

'Doesn't surprise me,' Jack murmured. 'What has she chosen?'

'Carmen,'

Jack grunted.

'Won't Mr Schwarz be happy with that?'

The other man leaned back in his chair, 'It makes no difference to him either way, he trusts her judgement,'

'Then what's the problem?'

'I'm going to need to familiarise myself with the play,'

'Opera,'

'Same thing,' Jack shrugged.

'Not really,'

'Let's not turn into a pedant, eh Signor?'

Ricardo turned to leave but Jack's voice stopped him. 'Careful what you say,'

'I am,' he said without turning.

'Wouldn't want anything to, you know, accidently be made public about you, if you should let something slip,'

'I got the picture when I spoke to him,'

'He asked nicely first time around,'

'I didn't really want to come to New York,'

Jack laughed. 'You act like you got a choice,'

'Yes, you've both made it abundantly clear that I do not,'

'It's just a year,'

'A year is a long time,'

'But she is _brilliant_, that's what you said, it's not like it will be hard work,'

Ricardo turned to face him. 'Yes, she is brilliant but perhaps the rest of the cast won't be,' he snapped. 'He can't blackmail all of the decent performers in the world,'

Jack grinned, 'Maybe not but it's your job to bring all the mediocre ones up to scratch, right?'

Grudgingly, he nodded and turned again to leave, mumbling. 'If Mr Schwarz is so accomplished maybe he could do it himself,'

'Might not want to say that too loudly around here,' Jack said, having heard him.

Ricardo laughed, there wasn't really a lot going his way. 'You've got good hearing,'

'I have great hearing,'

Ricardo snorted.

'Just a year… do a good job and you're free,'

'And if I don't do a _good_ _job_?'

'There are numerous possibilities,' Jack replied. 'None of them are good for your health and wellbeing, just do it right… it will work itself out,'

'Set me up a meeting with your boss,' Ricardo said, feeling oddly rather brave.

'Don't think he's likely to agree to that just yet,'

Ricardo spun around, 'How can he expect me…'

'Let's not argue about this; Mr Schwarz will meet you when he is good and ready,'

'It's all about him with you isn't it?' Ricardo snarled.

'If you had any sense, it would be for you too,'

He knew he was fighting a losing battle, he knew he was in a no win situation and he knew that whoever Schwarz was, he was a man to be feared. He saw it on the face of the security guard and he saw it on Jack's face but as a man himself it was difficult to just give in to such demands. He sighed.

'Just a year,'

'That's what he says,'

'What if he changes his mind?'

'It won't be any longer,'

Ricardo rolled his eyes. 'I don't see how you can know that,'

'He's a man of his word,'

'Do you even see the irony in your statement?'

Jack grinned, 'I do. Great, isn't it?'

* * *

The boat finally docked and the passengers were treated to a first class view of New York City, and dry land, for the first time in just under ten days. Antoinette Giry stretched her legs as she climbed from the boat and felt immediately wobbly on dry land. It was rare that she travelled anywhere of any great distance by boat and now at least she knew why they called them your _sea legs_. She was alone, Meg had opted to stay with the ballet in Paris where she was fast making a name for herself, but for Antoinette the idea of working in an exotic country was appealing. She had spent so many years in France and had never before been further than England, so to her, this was a whole new adventure.

The fact that it was Christine who had written some weeks ago only made the decision all that much easier, although she did worry about leaving Meg. Still, she was due to be married soon herself, she could not very well up sticks and leave just because her mother asked her to. To be the new ballet mistress at a theatre yet to be named seemed somehow glamorous and she was excited at the prospect, pleased that she would have an opportunity to leave her mark in another theatre.

She looked down at her cane and smiled… what might have been.

When she looked back up again, Raoul was standing in front of her, his arms spread open, 'Madame!'

She could not stop the smile from spreading onto her lips as she approached him and was embraced warmly. 'So good to see you,' he said, his voice as gentle as she remembered.

'And you,' she said warmly, and meant it. 'It has been too long,'

Raoul nodded but his smile never wavered as he escorted her to the carriage that was waiting. When they were settled inside he instructed the driver to move off and turned his attention back to her.

'You look well,' he said.

'And so do you, if a little thin,'

He blushed. 'Well, the food isn't the same here,'

'Not full of butter, you mean?' she smiled.

He glanced wistfully out of the window, his face changing briefly, and for a moment she was tempted to ask him what troubled him but before she could, he turned back to her, smiling once more and asked, 'How is Meg?'

'Meg is very well,' she replied. 'Engaged, you know?'

'I'm very pleased for her,' he said.

'How is Christine?'

'Happy,' he said. 'Now that she is singing again,'

'She was happy before,'

Raoul's Adams apple bobbed, 'I wonder,'

She touched the back of his hand, 'Well don't,'

Eventually, the smile returned and he said, 'Welcome to Manhattan,'

* * *

**A/N: From memory, Faust was the kidnapping Opera in both Leroux and Kay- for the purposes of this chapter, think in terms of Lloyd Webber, as I did. Also, forgive typos etc, this went up with only a few minutes editing. Apologies.**


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: There is some poetic license used in this chapter in relation to electricity. Although I have not technically specified a time frame, I always thought that the original Phantom was set in the late 1800s… as this is nine years later we could argue we are into the 1900s…. For arguments sake, lets just assume that this is doable. **_

**A/N: Made a couple of changes as I seem to be adding a Y at the end of all of my words! There are probably a few more errors in this so apologies.**

**Chapter 9**

In the three and a half months since work started on the building the whole thing had taken on quite a breathtaking transformation. The exterior looked the same but lighter and the front door was now in place, large, imposing and yet somehow, inviting. When entering through the main doors they were greeted by the elaborate staircase from the design drawings, copied almost to perfection, with swirls around the ends of the banister and detailed designs carved meticulously into the woodwork.

The floor was a clean, polished marble that glittered under the new electric light system and back up gas lighting. It was slippery under foot and Christine had to be careful where how she walked, but she liked the expensive and yet welcoming feel of it, and felt that not only had Paul created an excellent design but that the masons, too, had done it justice.

Raoul was staring up at the open section in the lobby, it was a glass domed roof in the centre of the beautifully curved ceiling.

'Well,' he said, letting air escape his mouth in a '_whoosh'_.

Christine smiled and shook her head, almost disbelieving herself. 'Well indeed,'

Both of them stood on the marble floor, under the open roof, simply looking around them, gobsmacked at the rapid and stunning changes since the last time they had been.

'It's certainly something,' Raoul said as his feet finally moved and he led her further into the building. There were no tools, no rubble, no workmen… the project seemed very nearly complete.

Christine looked up at the door to the left of the staircase and smiled. Above it, proudly, was one of the carved archways they had so vehemently argued with Philippe about. She moved closer to it and stared up. There was nothing wrong with it, it was wonderfully sculpted and beautifully finished. 'I love it,' she whispered softly, more to herself than to Raoul but she felt his arm slip around her waist none the less.

'Shall we?' he said as he pressed a kiss into her hair.

She nodded and they moved through the door and were led into the auditorium, which was larger and plusher than she had imagined it would be. Above her head were the balcony seats and straight ahead, down a long column of steps, stood the magnificent stage; imposing and inviting, all at the same time.

Raoul took her hand and, seeing no one else in the room, he began to run down the steps taking her with him, his boyish excitement as infectious as a plague. She followed, giggling the entire way down, until they both collapsed on the steps at the side of the stage, laughing and breathless.

'You're crazy,' she nudged him.

He turned to her and smiled, his hazel eyes dark under the gas lights. 'I feel like a teenager,'

It was wonderful to see him smile. 'It _is_ beautiful,'

'It isn't that,' he said, his eyes not leaving hers, his smile never wavering, despite the serious tone in his voice. 'It's you,'

'Me?'

'You look…' he sighed, kissed her lips gently. 'Happy… at home,'

'I was happy before, Raoul,' she said, squeezing his hand.

He nodded. 'This is where you belong though, I know it is, and I am sorry that I took you away from it,'

She touched his cheek with her fingertips, 'You brought me back to it,'

They kissed again, and this time his arms went around her and he pulled her close, she felt his love in that kiss and smiled against him.

'I love the way that you're smiling,' Christine said to him as the kiss faded. '_That_ makes me happy,'

He opened his mouth to respond as they heard a door behind them clatter shut and footsteps on the stage. Christine jumped but Raoul, though tensed, was calm, he put an arm across her and simply turned. She realised that neither of them were quite sure what they expected but oddly, when seeing Jack, she could feel Raoul's relief run from his body to hers.

'Young love,' Jack said, looking down at them. From that angle he looked tall and dark, almost frightening.

They both stood and walked up onto the stage.

'I'm not sure we qualify as young anymore,' Christine smiled.

'Compared to me,' Jack said, 'You're a spring chicken,'

Raoul laughed gently and shook the other man's hand. 'How are you Jack?'

'I'm well, thank you,' he replied. 'I'll be better when the architect signs off on the building and we can have the keys,'

'When will that be?' Raoul asked.

'Hopefully today,' Jack said. 'I was actually just looking for him. You haven't seen him around have you?'

Christine shook her head. 'No, but we have only been in the lobby and here,'

'The two most spectacular places to be in all of New York at the moment,' Jack said. 'How rude of me… how are you both?'

'Don't be silly,' Christine said. 'But thank you, we're both very well… this place is wonderful,'

Jack nodded. 'Mr Schwarz only works with the best,'

'Speaking of which,' Raoul said. 'Has a meeting been arranged so that we can finally get to know him?'

Jack held up his hand, 'Ah, he's still pretty busy,'

Raoul looked sceptical.

'But, he says that with cast rehearsals going so well, and costumes being designed, opening night cannot be far away,'

Christine nodded. 'I can hardly wait, I don't think I have ever felt more ready,'

'That's good,' Jack said with a smile. 'Well, my point is that Mr Schwarz thinks that a ball… perhaps a week before… would not go amiss,'

Raoul nodded.

'He will invite all of the prominent people he knows, including you and the cast, and he will be in attendance,' Jack explained. 'He will be sending out invitations as soon as he knows when opening night will be and hopes to meet you both there,'

'What about Philippe?'

Jack glanced side to side and stepped closer, 'Honestly, unless he cuts down on his drinking and lewd behaviour, I'm not convinced he will be receiving an invitation,'

Christine was not surprised but Raoul looked shocked, 'He is the benefactor,'

'Nobody is saying that he hasn't contributed some money to the project and he will get his return, however, the paperwork you all signed did not specify his level of involvement. Actually, it did just the opposite.'

Although Christine felt almost relieved at this revelation, Raoul looked absolutely furious, 'This is ridiculous,'

Jack held up both palms in a half hearted gesture at surrender, 'Are you disagreeing that his behaviour is a problem?'

Raoul paused and looked at him. 'No,'

'Then I can't see the issue,' Jack said. 'I mean no offence, but there will be some very influential people there. I have no doubt that you and your lovely wife will be able to charm them but Philippe's presence is a worry,'

Raoul looked ready to argue again and so Christine placed her hand on his arm and said, as gently as she could, 'Raoul, you know what he is saying is right,'

He looked at her, angry at first but she saw the gentle softening of his dark eyes, 'Yes, I'm sorry,'

Jack shrugged. 'He's your brother,'

'He is,' Raoul sighed. 'I wish there was another way,'

'You never know,' Jack said to him. 'Maybe Philippe will turn himself around,'

Christine doubted this very much and although Raoul smiled and nodded, she could see the doubt surface in his eyes too. Perhaps it was best though, that Philippe was not involved in the day to day running of the opera and the meeting of potential members.

Jack bid them a cheerful farewell and returned to his search for the elusive architect and although he had dampened Raoul's mood, she doubted that anything could douse her bright spirits.

* * *

Jack had finally found Paul sitting up in the office adjoining the ball room. He held a small glass of brandy in one hand and a bunch of keys in the other. On the table was the release contract. When Jack had walked in the other man had looked up but did not smile.

'Paul,' he had said.

The architect had taken a large swallow of his brandy and held up the decanter. 'Jack,' he said. 'Drink?'

Jack held up his hand, 'No,'

'Your loss,' Paul had finally smiled but there was a shadow across it. 'I'm celebrating,'

Jack had raised his eyebrows and sat on the edge of the desk, 'Looks like it,'

I have signed your release,' Paul told him, pointing the key in his hand to the document lying on the table.

Jack lifted it up and read through it carefully, _twice_. Then he signed the bottom on behalf of the company and took the key from the architect.

Paul had scowled at Jack, 'I'm glad this is over,'

'You enjoy it,'

'I do but not when under this much pressure,'

Jack had not minded the comment, why would he? It was a statement of fact. Paul had been under immense pressure to finish this to a high standard as soon as possible.

'Don't do this to me again, Jack,'

Jack smiled. 'Sorry,'

'I did you a favour,'

'Mr Schwarz knows you have,' Jack had assured him. 'And you will be rewarded for it, you know how it works. He didn't trust anyone else with this,'

Paul had been silent for a moment before he nodded his head. 'Then it's all yours,'

Now, standing outside Schwarz's office, he wondered if the man knew how much affect he had on people. He waited a moment and then, when the prompt came, he entered the room, ensuring that the door was closed securely behind him.

'It's done?' Schwarz asked, his back to Jack and staring out of the window.

'I have the contract and keys,'

'I went there, last night,' the boss said, in an unusually conversational tone. It wasn't the first time that Jack had known it to happen, but it was rare. 'It's very nicely finished,'

'Yes,' Jack agreed.

'Sit down,' he said, his voice deep, accented and smooth. 'You look like a rag in the wind there,'

Jack walked over and pulled up a seat at the edge of the desk behind Schwarz. The boss finally turned around, his eyes intent as ever, the white mask glowing under the lights overhead.

'The keys?' he asked.

Jack placed the keys on the table, being careful not to force the boss to lean forward but also careful not to move too close to him, to invade his space. He had seen that mistake made before, though fortunately not by him.

Schwarz picked up the keys and removed one from the loop, placing it back on the table. 'Yours,' was all he said. Jack did not hesitate too long, picking up the key and pocketing it quickly.

'Paul is pleased with the work,' Jack said.

'He is fastidious,' the boss responded. 'He has never been any different. It is why I chose him,'

Jack nodded, waiting to be dismissed but the instruction never came.

'Have they seen it?' Schwarz asked, his blue eyes looking hard and sharp.

Jack did not need to ask who he meant. 'Philippe wasn't there,'

'Good,'

'What do you want me to do about him?' Jack asked.

A wry smile spread across the boss' face. 'He has served his purpose,'

Jack's eyes must have widened because Schwarz smirked again, 'Don't worry, Jack, this isn't one of the dirtier jobs. Find a way to keep him drunk and out of my way,'

Jack nodded his head, surprised by Schwarz's demeanour but not altogether unhappy about it either. Schwarz seemed to be in a good mood, one that rarely ever graced the office, let alone their conversations and so Jack said, 'They asked about meeting you again,'

He nodded but said nothing.

'I told them about the ball,'

'Good,'

'They seemed pacified,'

Again, the boss nodded and then he glanced away, a distance finding its way into his eyes as he looked out of the window and across New York's skyline. There was silence and the air suddenly felt thick but when Schwarz looked back his eyes had changed and he said, 'Did Christine like it?'

'The Opera house?'

He nodded.

'She loved it,' Jack said. 'And Bianchi thinks she's ready for the show to start right now. Knows all of her lines, all of the arias, the music the cues and says she sounded great,'

'He said great?'

Jack felt his cheeks go hot. 'Well, that was my interpretation,'

'Is he still unhappy?' Schwarz asked.

Jack nodded. 'But he's hiding it better,'

Schwarz's eyes shimmered a strange gold colour briefly before he blinked and they were blue again, leaving Jack to wonder if he had seen it at all. 'He should be grateful,'

Jack thought it was probably safer to say nothing at all than risk saying the wrong thing.

Schwarz asked, 'Can I confide something in you, Jack?'

As surprised as he was by the statement, Jack hid it well and replied, 'Of course,'

'Ricardo Bianchi is the luckiest man on earth,' Schwarz said, his eyes suddenly so dark they were almost black. 'He should count his blessings that he is fortunate enough to have a well paid job in a thriving part of the world and working with, perhaps, the greatest diva that has ever graced the planet,'

Jack nodded.

'He may think he is training her, but he is not,' Schwarz said. 'He may think he is her teacher, but he is not… if he spends enough time in her company he will want her to love him, she _will_ _not_, but she will be the finish of him… just mark my words,'

It wasn't a conversation Jack was likely to forget anytime soon.

* * *

**A/N: Quick thank you for the great reviews. This is slowly going in the right direction, I think. Hope you're all still with me. Will try to reply to reviews over the weekend.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: I'm trying to give background and take this slowly, **_**build it up**_** but I'm fighting the urge to get things moving quicker. I really wanted this to be a development… if you think I am rushing tell me, if you think I am going TOO slowly, let me know.**

**Haven't had time for much editing on this. I'm hoping there aren't too many glaring errors.**

**This will probably be the only update this week as I am going out of town. There will be one, possible two next week. I have 23 chapters written. Starting 24 today… so I should be okay, still, with the regular updates.**

**Chapter 10**

Antoinette Giry felt like she was in her element. In the months that she had been in New York she had taken a rag bag bunch of dancers and transformed them, with some effort and much imagination, into a fully fledged operatic chorus. They sang, they danced, they kept time to the music and they did it all with a smile and just a little edge of fear, _nobody_ wanted to get it wrong.

She was the first to admit that she was only just short of a slave driver, demanding perfection, hard work and utter dedication from her dancers, yet she liked to think that, given time, she came to be liked by the performers. Looking at the ballet dancers now, tired and sweating, yet buzzing from their excitement, she knew it was only a matter of time before their fear for her wrath actually became more of a respect.

It was a balancing act, of course, and although she usually got it right there were times when she had not. Seeing the cast now, though, she knew that this was one of the times where things would go well.

She stamped her cane to the ground and they all looked and stood up immediately.

'Well done today,' she said, feeling the emptiness of the theatre behind her. This rehearsal had been behind closed doors, as requested, and she was pleased that both Ricardo Bianchi and the conductor, Ralph Javier, had respected her wishes and stayed away. The first full run through of _Carmen_ was the following day and the dancer's had not had much chance to get a feel for the new stage. 'You have all done _very_ well,'

Long gone were the days when her dancers consisted of all young girls, before her now were young boys and young men just as eager to be part of the performance as any of her girls. It was slowly becoming more accepted that the dancing needed a mixture of both and, although they took some mocking for it, they stood up well to the challenge.

After dismissing the group she sat in the front row of the auditorium, staring up at the stage. When they had told her that the building would not only be complete within months but would also be magnificent most people could probably have forgiven her for being a touch sceptical at the claims. The theatre had been merely a shell when she had first arrived in America and although they had insisted to her that the structure was solid, she held her doubts. At the time she could not have imagined such a quick and spectacular turn around.

How wrong she had been.

The seat she now nestled in was plush and so comfortable it tempted her to sleep. She resisted, of course, but she felt mostly at home in the huge, yet hospitable environment. Resting her head back on the seat she closed her eyes and let her mind drift to her youth. It seemed such a long time back and yet she was not elderly. She often feared that, over time, she would once and for all forget the carefree child, who danced and laughed and loved and played…

Back then she had been on a fast track to fame, an excellent dancer with the commitment and passion that many others lacked. It was no accident that she had been injured, although most people thought of it as such.

In her twenties she had auditioned for a leading dance role in a ballet to be performed at the Opera Populaire between Operas… she had got the part but had managed to create a rival in the process. The other girl, though not much younger than Antoinette, did not quite have the skill nor the drive that her slightly older counterpart did. One day, during rehearsals, she had tripped Antoinette off the edge of the stage and broken her leg, high up, near the hip.

Her leg had, fortunately, healed but not without its damage and she always limped after that, and never danced again. At the age of twenty six her career was over and so, too, it seemed her livelihood.

Months later, the other girl vanished. No one knew where she had gone but Antoinette had her suspicions and though she disapproved of some of his methods, she could not in truth say that she was disappointed.

The girl was never seen again.

Early the following year the ballet mistress at the time resigned her post, much to everyone's surprise, and Antoinette was offered the role. She grasped it with both hands, choosing to be pleased instead of bitter, and although the whole experience hardened her, she found that she loved the new role.

Being alone in the theatre often made her think back to days gone by and it _always_ made her think of Erik, the Opera Ghost. She had known better of course but she never told. How could she, after all that he had done for her? No, she knew him well and yes, she disagreed with his methods but she loved him all the same.

She opened her eyes and stared up at the beams overhead. She was convinced that, for a moment, she had seen a black shadow pass across them but she simply smiled and dismissed the notion.

Yes, empty theatres always did this to her.

* * *

It was good to see Benoit's hands play across the keys of the piano in the orchestra pit. He sat straight, his shoulder's square and his back tight, as his fingers found notes that she had forgotten existed and she wondered how such a young boy could have such a massive talent. Christine sat in the second row just listening, allowing herself that moment of bliss, moment of calm in which she could simply enjoy her son.

Things had been hectic for the last few weeks, finishing touches were being put to costumes, the set was backstage and ready and the cast were preparing for their first full run through together. Under Ricardo's gentle guidance she had _found_ herself in the opera and she understood the role and its implications throughout the performance. She liked Ricardo but found that she often wished that he would push her more, when she asked him about this he would simply say, 'What is there to push, you sound wonderful,'

Though his insistence was solid and the praise very flattering she would sit there wondering if there was more she could do. Somehow, when he said that she sounded perfect, she didn't quite believe it.

'Mama,' Benoit called.

She blinked and glanced over at him. He looked older under the dull lights and as he turned to her his eyes shone a brief slate colour before returning to their normal blue. She stood and went to him, taking a seat on the piano bench and slipped her arm around his thin shoulders. He rested his head against her, as he often did on their balcony mornings, and sighed.

'Is this what I will be?' he asked.

She stroked his hair. 'What do you mean?'

'A musician,' he clarified.

She smiled and kissed his forehead. 'You will be anything you choose to be, I am sure of it,'

He leaned away from her and pressed his fingers back down onto the keys but she could see his smile.

'What if I choose to be a teacher?'

She couldn't help but smile. 'Like Mrs Kelly?'

He nodded.

'An honourable profession,' she said.

'Would you be pleased?' he asked.

'There isn't much you could do that would displease me,'

'Even if I worked as a chimney sweep,'

'It is honest work, Benoit,'

He chuckled. 'Uncle Philippe would not be happy,'

She supposed that this was true. 'There is nothing wrong with being a chimney sweep,'

'What about an animal trainer, for the circus?'

She laughed gently, she couldn't help it. 'As long as you promise not to run away with them and as long as the animals are not too dangerous,'

He turned and frowned at her. 'Oh, it's not fun if you train tame animals, mama, that defeats the point,'

Again, she found herself laughing and could not resist the urge to tickle his ribs, causing his own giggles to ripple through the quiet theatre. 'I would not want you to get hurt,'

'A man must work,' he said, puffing out his chest.

'You certainly didn't get _that_ from your uncle Philippe,' she said, without thinking but Benoit was smiling.

'You're right mama,' he said. '_Papa_ told me a man must work hard to support his family,'

She pulled him close and hugged him to her, squeezing him into her side. 'That certainly sounds like something your father would say,' she said with a small smile. 'You will need to take care of your wife,'

Benoit stared at her and then pulled a face of disgust. 'I don't want a wife,'

'Not yet,' she said, feeling that she was fighting a losing battle already. Nine year old boys were not generally known for their long term planning, she thought.

'Not ever,' he insisted. 'Girls are strange,'

'I won't deny that,' she grinned.

'And taller than me,'

This time a laugh escaped. 'They're not _all_ taller than you,'

He crossed his arms over his chest and gave an uncharacteristic pout. 'Elizabeth is taller than me and Sally, too,'

The neighbours children were, indeed, much taller than he was but they were also much older. She told him this but it had little effect.

'What about Emma, then?' he asked and then added, with impeccable nine year old logic. 'She is my age and still taller than I am,'

'You will be taller soon,' she said. 'I was once taller than your father,'

She exaggerated, of course, but it was close to the truth. Especially when she had worn shoes and he was completely barefoot. She had been around his height, being a year younger, and had found him dashing from the moment they met.

Benoit looked shocked at the innocent revelation 'You were taller than papa?'

She nodded, compounding the white lie. 'Only just, but I was,'

'When will I grow then?' he asked.

'When you're a teenager,' she replied.

He huffed slightly. 'But that is a long time away,'

'You will be tall though, like your father,' she insisted.

'Good,' he nodded. 'I don't want to be short all my life,'

She smiled and ruffled his hair, placing a kiss against his forehead when her hand moved away. 'You won't be, I promise,'

And with that the conversation was over and Benoit turned his attention back to the piano and began to play again. She touched his shoulder gently and then stood up, moving away to let him play. She walked from the Orchestra pit and, as she did, she took a moment to look around her. From that day on it would be rare for the theatre to be this quiet and so she looked around, letting herself enjoy the quiet and beauty of the room.

She glanced up and, around the sides of the stage, stood the six boxes, all with their numbers carved into them. When her eyes drifted across box five she paused and stared for a moment. A familiar jolt took hold of her heart and for a moment she was sure that she saw movement up there but the sensation disappeared as quickly as it had arrived and she took her seat in the second row, ignoring the gnawing at the back of her brain.

When Benoit finished the next piece he turned to her and smiled and it melted her heart. She knew that she would never tire of his company and she knew that she could never, ever, love anything more.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: This might look like a filler at first…**

**Thank you for the reviews.**

**Chapter 11**

The door knocker was as highly polished as it was heavy and Jack fantasised, not for the first time, about what it would be like to have the kind of money that bought expensive, brass door knockers. He waited patiently until the door swung open and the young Benoit stood in the opening, staring up at him. The boy was thin, as all children seemed to be, and dark. His eyes were a sharp blue and his hair black, like day and night, and if it hadn't been for his warm smile Jack might have thought that the child was a bit sinister looking.

'Hello Mr Aldridge,' he said and stepped aside. Jack wondered what possessed the family to allow Benoit to open the door and why, it seemed, the boy trusted him so much. If they knew better, they would probably not open the door at all, let alone allow him inside.

'Hello Benoit,' Jack said, closing the door behind him. 'Are your parents at home?'

'Papa is out with uncle Philippe but mama is here, in the music room,' he replied. Jack cringed at the boy's honest and trusting nature, it should worry people that children were so inviting and that Benoit was prepared to tell a man he barely knew that his father was not home and that his mother was in the house alone.

Fortunately for Benoit, and the rest of the De Chagny household, Jack was not there to do any harm, he was simply hand delivering the invitation to the ball the following Saturday night.

'Where is the music room?' Jack asked as Benoit was about to leave him standing in the hallway on his own.

Benoit jumped off the bottom step of the stairs and gestured for him to follow. 'How are you?' he asked the boy, strangely curious about him.

'Oh, I'm well, thank you,' Benoit said, as he opened another door and led him inside. 'How are you?'

'Good,' Jack said, 'I'm…' he paused when he heard the singing and stared ahead at the door in front of him. He didn't need Benoit to tell him that this was the music room and that it was Christine singing inside. Ricardo Bianchi had been right, she sounded fantastic.

Benoit beamed up at him, 'That's my mother,'

Jack nodded, his breath taken by the sound of her voice.

The boy turned and ran from the room, 'Knock before you go in,' he shouted behind him as he disappeared around the corner.

Jack waited until she stopped singing and then gently rapped his knuckles against the frosted glass pane in the door. After a short moment she called for him to enter and when he did he was surprised to find that Ricardo was there with her.

'Jack,' Ricardo said, without warmth. Christine glanced at him, surprised, but said nothing.

Jack gave them both his best smile. 'Good Morning Ricardo,'

Christine returned his smile, even though the vocal coach did not. 'What brings you here Jack?'

He waved the envelope. 'Your invitation to the spectacle of the year,'

She walked to him and took the invitation from his hand. 'It was very kind of you to bring it personally,'

'We're friends,' Jack said slickly. 'Aren't we?'

'Of course,' she replied warmly. 'Can you I have a drink brought in for you?'

He shook his head. 'I shouldn't stay. In fact, if I'd known you were rehearsing I would have come at another time,'

'Don't be silly,' she said. 'Besides, it's an impromptu session anyway, isn't it Ricardo?'

Jack shot a sideways glance at the other man, who shuffled his feet and blushed pink. 'It is, I'm afraid,'

Christine was smiling warmly, 'He was in the area and decided to see if I wanted to practice,'

'Did he, now?' Jack said, turning his attention fully to Ricardo who was looking more and more uncomfortable by the second.

'You're not being paid for house calls,' Jack said, trying to keep his voice jovial but failing miserably. It would not please the boss to know that Ricardo was dropping in uninvited to Christine's home. He did not know all there was to know about the situation and he did not ask, it was not his place, but what he _did_ know was that there was history between Schwarz and Christine, and history was not a thing easily brushed aside.

Before Ricardo could defend himself, Christine smiled, 'Ricardo is just helping me, I don't mind,'

Jack nodded at her but turned his eyes straight back to Ricardo. 'Perhaps it would be wise for you to keep your lessons to the theatre now,'

Ricardo swallowed. 'Of course,'

'We wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea, would we?'

'No,' Ricardo said.

'We all know that this is perfectly innocent but… well, _rumours_ happen,' Jack said, his tone icy.

Christine stepped in, her smile wavering only slightly and said, 'There is no need to worry so much about me,'

Jack placed his hand over his heart and said, 'But I do, we _all_ do,'

Ricardo was nodding furiously.

'Well, there's no need,' she insisted, looking a little uncomfortable herself. 'I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,'

Jack dragged his glare away from Ricardo and forced what he hoped was a warmish smile in Christine's direction. 'I don't doubt that,' he assured her. 'But some people are less than scrupulous,'

He could have been talking about himself, under most other circumstances.

'Surely you're not insinuating that Signor Bianchi is one of these people,' she said. It was not really a question and her voice, though light, held a stern undercurrent.

Jack forced a laugh, hoping that it sounded real. Over the years he had become quite the accomplished actor and it had often served him well, especially when working for Schwarz. 'Of course not,' he said, aiming for earnest. 'Just that some other people, neighbours perhaps, the press… they might not see it as so innocent,'

Christine thought about it for a moment and nodded her head, though she was plainly still unhappy. Any man who thought that she was simply a little woman who did as her husband told her had clearly never seen the steely resolve in her eyes, or the way her lips pressed together when she was unhappy. He wondered, then, if she had _ever_ been a woman to be told what to do, she looked so strong and sure of herself. Just because she often chose to be peacemaker or turn her attention the other way made her no less a strong woman.

No wonder Schwarz liked her.

'Well, I appreciate your concern, Jack,' she said and actually sounded like she meant it. Which was a _very_ good thing. He wasn't sure what eventuality the boss would react least favourably too; Jack telling him that Ricardo Bianchi was dropping in to see Christine for private, and unscheduled, rehearsals or that Jack had managed to upset Christine himself. Fortunately for him, at least, she did not seem too displeased.

'Were you leaving now, Ricardo?' he asked, turning his attention back to the vocal coach.

'Er… yes,' he lied, wisely.

'Then let me walk you out,' Jack said, smiling.

Whether or not Christine felt the tension was irrelevant, she was too polite to say even if she had and so she saw them out and waved them goodbye.

As soon as they were out of sight, and Jack was sure that no one of any significance was looking on, he grabbed Ricardo by the throat and threw him against the wall. Most men would have fought back but Ricardo simply pleaded to be released.

'You've lost your mind,' Jack said.

'I was only giving a lesson,'

'I saw the way you looked at her,'

He felt Ricardo swallow against his hand. 'She is beautiful, it is hard not to look,'

'And yet somehow I manage it,'

'Let me go,'

'Listen carefully,' Jack hissed. 'This _never_ happened. You didn't come here alone and this little talk, it _never_ happened, yes?'

Ricardo nodded painfully.

'I don't tell Schwarz,' Jack said, feeling some serious misgivings bubble in his gut. 'And we forget about this,'

Again, the other man nodded his head.

'There are conditions to this,' Jack said as he let go of Ricardo's throat.

The vocal coach rubbed his neck and coughed, 'What are they?'

'You never,' Jack said, staring at him. 'I mean _never _meet her alone anywhere other than the theatre again,'

'Yes, yes…'

'You never tell anyone about this talk,' Jack continued. 'And you never cross us again, do you understand?'

Ricardo nodded but said, 'I didn't realise this was crossing you,'

Jack shook his head in despair. 'When we first started working together, what did I tell you?'

'Not a lot, as it happens,'

Though Jack could feel his arms tense, he resisted the pull of violence and said, 'I told you, clearly, that Schwarz had a vested interest in this, in Christine,'

Ricardo said nothing.

'I told you if you ever told anyone about this, then your secret would be made public,' Jack reminded him. 'Possibly worse,'

Again, Ricardo stood mute.

'What part of that suggested to you that it might be fine for you to pursue Christine?'

He saw Ricardo's Adam's apple bob.

Jack laughed them, the memory of that late evening conversation with Schwarz suddenly flooding back to him. 'He was right,'

The vocal coach looked at him, brows furrowed in deep confusion.

'He said that this would happen,' Jack said, shaking his head. 'He said you would fall in love with her,'

'I am not in love with her,' Ricardo protested, just a little too vehemently.

'No?' Jack asked, lifting his eyebrows.

'She's special, is all,'

He laughed again, harder this time, so much so that his ribs actually ached from the force of it. When he glanced back at Ricardo, he noticed that the other man looked distinctly offended, and this did nothing to assuage his laughter. 'She will never love you,'

Ricardo huffed slightly but had given up denying his feelings.

'I think he was right about that too,'

'She is married,' Ricardo said, thinking that this explained the reason that she wouldn't love him.

Jack doubted that this was the case at all. With tears of laughter in his eyes he clapped Ricardo on the shoulder and said, 'I don't think you're her type,'

* * *

It was interesting, how people developed views on others without even knowing them, how their perceptions were tainted by sight or rumour. He thought that now, as he watched Jack and Ricardo from the restaurant window, in a booth that was held for him and for him only. His hearing was so good that simply by opening the window at the top just a crack he could hear every word.

It did not surprise him that Jack had chosen to keep Ricardo's indiscretion to himself, at least for the time being. Jack Aldridge was indeed a tough and brutal man but he was not cold blooded nor without his humanity. He had effectively taken it upon himself to offer Ricardo a chance to prove himself. A second chance, if you will.

People who met Jack were often quick to jump to the conclusion that he was both trustworthy and friendly, because he had an easy style and an American accent. This was, however, not generally the case. To most, Jack was neither trustworthy nor friendly and it did most of the people who actually knew him, well to remember this.

He often found that one of the biggest motivators of all was fear. People feared him and so, people did as he said. It was something he was used to, being feared, and yet through experience he knew that fear was not _the_ biggest of the motivators, although it ranked rather highly on the list. No, as powerful as fear was, love was _much_ stronger. People would do almost anything for love, he knew this all too well, and so he understand why some people chose never to fall.

He watched as Ricardo scurried away from Jack and clicked the window shut above him. While he waited, he sipped the wine, which was powerful and fruity and not altogether pleasant. She arrived only minutes later, her blonde hair loose and fanning around her shoulders. She took the seat opposite him and smiled.

She had rather a lovely smile.

'Hello Erik,' she said, lifting the menu.

'Good evening, Samantha,'


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Just so you all know, I will be giving some background to Philippe later on. It will (hopefully) fit into a section of the story and I will be able to bring it in naturally.**

**Thank you, as always, for the great reviews. I should have replied to you all but if I haven't, I will get around to it. **

**Not long now until we see Erik 'proper'.**

**Onwards…**

**Chapter 12**

If he had thought that the potential of the opera and the success of the building work would have buoyed his brother and put a stop to his mindless drinking, he had been very wrong. Raoul was in his dining room sitting opposite a bleary eyed Philippe, feeling as though the world was just about crumbling in on his older brother and knowing that there was very little he could do about it. For the past month he had tried to spend as much time as possible with Philippe in an attempt to kerb the incessant alcohol guzzling. His presence and advice had had little or no effect and Philippe was still drunk more times than he was sober and Raoul feared that the situation was becoming graver by the day.

As angered as he had been at Jack's comments regarding Philippe, particularly as his brother and Jack had been friends first, it was increasingly difficult to deny the problem and much easier now to see the problems that Philippe could cause should he play a very active role in the running of the opera house.

'Do you think you should take some coffee on the balcony perhaps?' Raoul asked him, combative tactic dropped for now as it clearly did not work. 'There is a gentle breeze and the air would probably do you some good,'

Philippe shook his head, or at least Raoul thought that he was shaking his head. It was worryingly early in the evening for Philippe to be in such a state and he was only happy that Christine was at the theatre for the dress rehearsal and that she had taken Benoit with her. There was a limit to even his wife's patience and the more Benoit saw Philippe in this condition, the more her good nature diminished.

'Are you sure?' Raoul prompted, trying again. 'It it's a lovely evening, the fresh air will probably help,'

Again, Philippe shook his head.

'Why are you here?' Raoul asked, finally giving up on the notion that he might sober his brother up.

'I came to see you,'

'I saw you this morning,'

Philippe made a haphazard attempt at a shrug and slurred, 'You're my brother,'

It was a familiar conversation, one they had had many times in the past and one that usually ended with Philippe slumped somewhere in the house, finally passed out from the copious amounts of gin he had put away.

'I am,' Raoul agreed, it was his normal response. 'But I think you should go home and sleep,'

Philippe laughed. 'It is early and the night is young,'

Raoul couldn't have agreed more. Far too early and far too young for being drunk.

'My family will be home for dinner soon…'

'Then I shall stay,' Philippe said.

'Why?'

'For dinner,'

Raoul swallowed, his mouth dry. 'It is a family dinner,'

'I _am_ family,'

Raoul stared at him. 'You're not invited, Philippe,'

He looked momentarily hurt but recovered quickly and smiled. 'Why not?'

'Because I have barely seen my wife for days,' he explained. 'I wish to spend the evening alone with her,'

'I haven't seen her either,'

'Philippe,' Raoul said, with a small sigh. 'When you do see each other you are barely civil,'

He laughed.

'So, I must insist that you go home,' Raoul said. 'I will send for a cab to take you,'

'I can walk,' he said, finally sounding offended. It was not what Raoul had wanted but something had to get through to him eventually.

'I'd prefer you to get a cab,'

'I might not want to go home,'

'Then where will you go?'

'Maybe to a bar,' Philippe shrugged. 'With Jack,'

Raoul paused, 'Has Jack invited you to a bar?'

Philippe smiled, 'He's my friend,'

'That doesn't really answer my question,'

'We're friends,' Philippe said. 'We go to bars together sometimes, friends do that brother,'

'Recently?'

Philippe nodded. 'You go out with _your_ friends,'

He sighed. 'I don't have any friends,'

When Philippe looked at him, his eyes were soft and wide, 'You've got me,'

Immediately, Raoul felt his heart sink and guilt wash over him. The man he was so desperately trying to shuffle out of his home was his own brother and he knew that he should be deeply ashamed.

'I'm sorry, Philippe,' Raoul said, reached out and touching his brother's shoulder. 'Would you stay for dinner?'

'What about your night alone with your wife?'

'Christine and I can spend tomorrow together,'

Philippe thought about this but said, 'You don't want me here,'

If it had been anyone else, Raoul might have seen this as a deliberate attempt to manipulate him, but he knew that in this situation it was simply that Raoul had hurt his brother's feelings and he was showing it.

'Of course I do,' Raoul said and was momentarily reminded of a memory of when they were boys. Only that time, the situation was reversed.

Philippe had always been popular, being older, and had a wealth of friends. He was invited to parties regularly and Raoul had been seen by most as the nuisance little brother who tagged along wherever Philippe went. One day, in the summer, they were all on the beach and Raoul had managed to get into one of the boys knapsacks and find his dagger. Playing with it he had accidently dropped in onto rocks and bent the point back.

Philippe's friends were not happy and began berating him, some insisting the younger of the de Chagny's went home and played with his little sisters. Raoul had turned to leave, he remembered the dejected feeling well, but Philippe had placed a hand on his shoulder and asked where he was going.

'Home,' he had said, fighting back boyish tears.

'Why?' Philippe had asked.

'Because they do not want me here,' he had replied.

Philippe had simply slipped a strong arm around his shoulders and said, 'They might not, but I do,'

He looked up at Philippe now, his eyes were not filled with tears like a child but they were clouded with hurt and so Raoul repeated, 'I do want you here, please stay,'

'I'd be happy to,' Philippe said, after a long moment of hesitation. 'Maybe a coffee wouldn't hurt either,'

* * *

When Christine and Benoit left the theatre she felt ecstatic, the full dress run through had been an absolute success and she felt on top of the world. Not only that, but Benoit had also enjoyed himself and befriended a couple of the other young boys who were there watching their mother's too. It was a wonderful feeling being able to take Benoit to rehearsals, being proud of him and being able to show him where some of his musical talent had come from.

The cab clunked along the cobbled road until they reached her home. After paying the driver she followed Benoit into the house and through to the kitchen, which smelt gloriously of lamb and herbs. Helen was standing at the stove, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun, stirring away at something that looking like gravy and smelt divine.

She turned when she heard the door close, 'Good evening Vicomtess,'

'Hello Helen,' Christine said, as she leaned over her to smell the gravy.

When Christine moved away Helen warned her, 'Comte de Chagny is here for dinner,'

She tried to hide her sigh as she said, 'Thank you, Helen,'

She followed Benoit into the dining room where she found Raoul and a not too sober but also, not too drunk, Philippe sitting at the table, which was set ready for dinner. She walked in, hiding her displeasure as best she could, and greeted her husband with a fleeting kiss to the cheek. Benoit bounded in and hugged his father before taking up his usual seat at the table with his back to the window.

When Christine sat down Raoul smiled at her, his eyes twinkling but concerned, and said, 'I asked Philippe to stay for dinner,'

'I can see that,' Christine said, trying not to sound terse but she was unsuccessful and immediately regretted it.

'We have enough food,' Raoul said, a little defensively. 'And Helen doesn't mind, one extra is not too much additional work,'

Christine sucked back a sigh and smiled at Philippe, 'How was your day?'

He glanced at her, 'It was fine, rehearsals?'

'Rehearsals went incredibly well,' she turned to Raoul. 'You should come to the next run through,'

He nodded. 'I'd love to, but I am tempted to wait for opening night… I want that feeling of seeing it for the first time,' he reached across and took her hand in his, a moment of tenderness to break the tension. 'I want to see you the way you always look on opening night and not be clouded by a dress rehearsal,'

His words melted her and instantly he was forgiven, as he would always be while he loved her this much. The days had merged to months and then years but their marriage was somehow strong, in the face of everything. She saw in his eyes that every day he loved her more. She loved him, too, but was not sure she was capable of such devotion, such unadulterated commitment.

She wondered if only men fell that hard as she leaned across and pressed her lips to his cheek. 'I have asked them to reserve a box,'

Raoul smiled, 'Which box, the one to the right?'

She nodded. 'The one with the best view of the stage, I asked for it… for you,'

He turned to Benoit and asked, playfully, 'Will you be accompanying me?'

Her son grinned, his whole face lighting up as it always did when he smiled, 'Of course,'

'Your mother,' Raoul said, leaning towards Benoit, 'She's something special on that stage,'

'Oh, I know,' Benoit said. 'The dress rehearsal was excellent,'

'Wait until you see the whole thing,' Raoul told him. 'The rehearsals are good but they are nothing compared to the full show, with the crowd and your mother, beautiful and proud…'

He glanced at her and was about to say more when Helen wheeled the trolley in and started placing the food in bowls in the centre of the table. Philippe's eyes lit up when he saw the food but he was uncharacteristically quiet and Christine was left wondering what had happened before she arrived.

The lamb and potatoes were succulent and tasty, and Philippe polished his food off and took seconds before Christine had even finished her first plate. She noticed that Raoul kept glancing at her but she did not catch his eye.

Helen had baked a cherry and almond cake but Christine chose to decline and asked her to draw a bath, so that she could finally begin to relax for the evening. Plates cleared, Benoit was sent to study and then sleep, while the adults stayed and made civil, yet uninteresting, small talk.

Philippe ending up spending the night, slinking off when he could no longer keep his eyes open, to the guest room upstairs.

When they were sure he had gone, Raoul said, 'I'm sorry about that,'

Christine stared at him. 'I wasn't happy when I got here, but its fine,'

'I know,' he said, sighing. 'He was really very drunk when he arrived,'

'He wasn't entirely sober by the time I got here,' she pointed out.

He shook his head. 'He's my brother,'

'I know,' she said but was feeling less than charitable. She had been looking forward to the evening with her family and to have Philippe there was something of a letdown. 'I am constantly reminded,'

'Would you have me turf him out?' he asked.

'Do you want me to answer you honestly, Raoul?' she said. 'Or are you asking questions that you would prefer not answered at all?'

His dark eyes flashed with rare anger. 'He is my family, Christine,'

'He is a drunk,' she said, inner turmoil mounting as she wished she could stop herself yet felt unable to do so.

'I can help him,'

She shook her head and closed her eyes. 'You have been trying to help him for months,'

'He's lonely,'

'He has an abundance of friends and women, Raoul, how can he be lonely?'

'Not true friends,' he said. 'Not people who really care,'

She rolled her eyes.

'What about Jack?' Raoul asked.

Confused she said, 'What about him?'

'He has been taking him to bars,'

'Says Philippe,'

'Why would he lie?'

'Why wouldn't he?' Christine asked. 'And why would Jack take him to bars, perhaps Philippe met him at these bars.' She waited but when Raoul did not speak she said, 'Jack frequents bars, we know that, but _he_ is _not_ a drunk,'

'Do we trust Jack?' Raoul asked, his voice soft once again.

'Why wouldn't we?' she asked, furious at the suggestion that their friend was deliberately undermining Raoul's efforts to keep his brother away from the alcohol.

'Just… we don't really know him,'

'I wonder if we really know your brother anymore,'

Raoul stared at her, more hurt than angry now and said, 'I don't think this is getting us anywhere,'

She swallowed, hating to fight with her husband but angry at his constant defence of Philippe. 'You're right,' she said to him.

'Have your bath,' Raoul said, 'But don't stay angry,'

Christine nodded and let him leave, too tired to carry on the fight but too tired to follow him either.

After all these years she wondered if Philippe would be the death of her yet.

* * *

A**/N2: GRR. When I make edits and put 'breaks' into the chapter through FFNet is takes out all of my underlining. Apologies for the titles etc not being underlined. Daft thing.**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: So many reviews and I only updated once last week so I am prompted to update for a third time this week. Thank you very much for the kind reviews. Some answers:**

**Philippe's background is revealed in a later chapter. **

**Samantha was seen briefly in two earlier chapters and her appearance is integral to the ending of the story.**

**I will kill at least one character but I will not tell you who, why or when it will happen.**

**The ball happens over two/three chapters… I hope you enjoy. Its rare for me to ask for reviews but would very much appreciate all feedback on the next three chapters. **

**Onwards and thank you, always…**

**Chapter 13**

It was the evening of the ball and Christine was slipping into her new dress, which Raoul had earlier deemed _absolutely perfect_, but she was now having second thoughts about. It wasn't that the dress wasn't stunning, it was. It was a deep blue colour with no straps, it instead hugged her bust and showed her shoulders. It was just a bit… _much._

Raoul kissed both shoulders while she was inspecting them in the mirror; unsure and nervous. She moved to each side in turn and checked that it fit well. She needn't have worried, it fit perfectly and was beautifully made, but she was just concerned about the tightness of it, the amount of bare skin on her shoulders, the way it stuck to her hips when she walked.

She turned to face her husband, 'It isn't very modest,'

Raoul laughed and kissed her cheek, 'You look lovely, Christine,'

A sigh escaped, 'People will stare at me,'

'You're a performer,' he said, as if this would change her mind.

'That's different and you know it is,'

He nodded.

'I hate being looked at… it shows too much,' she insisted.

'You will always be looked at,' he said softly.

She glanced at him.

'Because you're beautiful, Christine,' Raoul explained, with a shrug. 'Men are always looking at you,'

She knew that she was attractive, Raoul told her every day, and yet this did not matter to her. That she was pretty or ugly or plain was not the point, the point was that the dress was too revealing and she thought she would feel uncomfortable with people looking at her in it. As for men looking at her all of the time, she had never really noticed, and thought Raoul was greatly exaggerating.

'They're not always looking at me,' she said.

He smiled. 'And that is what I love about you… you underestimate your beauty,'

She felt her cheeks begin to blush.

'As long as they don't touch you, or make inappropriate remarks, they can look…I'm _proud_ that you are my wife,'

'But this dress…'

'But nothing,' Raoul said firmly. 'Honestly, people would look at you if you were wearing a potato sack… it's one of the pit falls of being so striking,'

She took another glance into the full length mirror, she was not satisfied still but she had very few options; her wardrobe was full of day dresses but it has been so long since she had needed an evening gown that none of them were really suitable anymore.

'I'll wear it,' she said. 'But I'm not altogether happy with it,'

'I am,' he shrugged, 'You look wonderful,'

She managed a smile at him. 'You had better get yourself ready, Jack will be here soon to pick us up,'

Raoul made no attempt to move, instead he simply looked at her, with a smile on his face and twinkle in his eye. He was looking at her as if he had never seen her before and for a moment she was worried that something was wrong.

'I love you,' he finally said. 'I always will,'

She walked to him a placed a soft kiss on his lips, 'Where did that come from?'

He shrugged. 'I just thought you should know it,'

'I do,'

Squeezing her hand, he smiled, 'Just making sure,'

With that he left her alone to neaten the dress and add the finishing touches to her outfit for the evening. It had been a long time since she had been to a ball and she had never been to one in America before. It was all new to her. She wondered what it would be like and if it would be quite as formal as the European balls she had attended.

The Americans seemed a much more relaxed set of people, they seemed easy in their own skin and they had no real aristocracy, which was strange and oddly refreshing all at the same time. She wondered who would be there, knowing that no princes and princesses existed in America, she assumed it would people of influence such as wealthy businessmen and politicians.

The thought made her a little bit nervous about the whole thing. If she was completely honest, she had very little experience in these kinds of things, and though she was considered aristocracy around the world, she rarely felt like it. When they were first married she and Raoul would attend almost every party in Paris, she was always uncomfortable and the more of them she went to, the worse she felt.

One would think that the more she attended the better equipped she would become but the parties always felt so soulless and the more small talk she made with people she had nothing in common with the less she wanted to go to the parties. Those that Philippe threw were made up of mostly his friends, which meant that not only did she have to make small talk but she had to do so while she was being looked down at.

She began to choose her jewellery as a small tap at the door turned her head. 'Come in,' she called.

Benoit walked in, dressed in his pyjamas, and smiled at her. She sat on the edge of the bed and opened her arms to him. He hugged her solidly, as he always did, and she wondered how much she would miss this as he grew.

'Papa is nearly ready,' he said.

She brushed the dark hair from his eyes, 'You need a haircut,'

He shook his head from side to side, making his hair flop around and then he smiled at her, 'I don't like having my hair cut,'

'I know,' she said, 'But you always look so _handsome_ afterwards,'

He giggled and pulled away from her embrace.

'What necklace should I wear?' she asked him.

Benoit glanced down at the row of jewellery laid out on the dresser and, after careful consideration, lifted the simple diamond necklace that Raoul had bought for her some years earlier.

'Good choice,' she said, taking it from him. 'Can you clip it for me, sweetheart?'

When they were done she stood and inspected herself one more time.

'Tell your father I will be right down,' she said.

* * *

Raoul stood at the foot of the stairs making small talk with Jack. The more time he spent with the man the less he trusted him; there was just something off about him, something that Raoul could not quite put his finger on.

He said nothing out of place, kept most of his opinions to himself, he was not insulting nor overly friendly… he just didn't know what it was but it was _something_.

When Christine descended the staircase they both looked up and Raoul felt his heart bump in his chest. She was utterly stunning and even Jack, usually quick with a compliment, was rendered speechless.

'Christine,' Raoul smiled, holding his hand out for her as she reached the bottom. She took it gently in hers and stepped down.

'Raoul,' she smiled and then turned her head. 'Good evening Jack,'

He blinked. 'You look lovely,'

'Thank you,' she said, glancing at each of them in turn. 'Shall we go?'

The journey to the theatre felt like it took an eternity, especially with Raoul feeling increasingly uncomfortable around their escort. When they finally arrived and entered the ballroom upstairs he found himself overcome with a sense of achievement. The room was buzzing and packed full of people enjoying themselves, drinking champagne and eating Hors d'oeuvres while they chatted and inspected their surroundings.

'I'll get us some drinks,' Jack said, as he disappeared.

He turned to his wife. 'How are you feeling?'

'Uncomfortable,' she said honestly.

He knew that she had never been a big fan of these types of events and so he squeezed her hand gently, 'I'm here,'

When Jack returned he was holding two flutes of champagne and was accompanied by an elderly gentleman with glasses that fell halfway down his nose. Jack handed Raoul one glass and Christine the other and then said, 'Raoul and Christine De Changy, I would like you to meet Henry Thomson,'

They all shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, most of which came from Henry himself.

Jack said, 'Henry owns a shipping company based here in New York,'

Henry smiled. 'Import _and_ export,'

'And as you know, Henry,' Jack said. 'Christine is the star of our new show,'

'Ah, Carmen,' Henry said, his accent sounding vaguely English. 'I saw that once in Italy, many years ago now,'

'Are you a lover of the opera then, Henry?'Raoul asked.

'I am,' he said. 'And am ecstatic that there is going to be one on my doorstep, especially one with such a lovely leading lady,'

Christine smiled.

'I was unfortunate to never see one of your performances in Europe but I have my ticket to the opening night here,' Henry said. 'I tried to grab one of the boxes but they were sold out for the night!'

Raoul had a feeling that he was going to like Henry.

He finished his glass of champagne as they were talking and when Henry wandered off, he and Christine started to walk around the room, meeting new people and talking to some prominent business men. It was amazing how many connections the Verkleiden company had.

Antoinette Giry had also been invited and as soon as Raoul spotted her, they made a beeline in her direction. She smiled as they approached and Raoul noted how elegant and happy she looked as he took her hand and placed a gentle kiss on her fingers.

'How is your new apartment?' he asked her. She had moved out of their house a little over a month before and he had seen all too little of her since then.

'It's nice, thank you,' she replied with a small smile. 'I do miss Benoit though,'

It had surprised Raoul that his son and the stern ballet mistress had bonded, but the fact remained that Benoit had found a great affection for Madame Giry in the short time they had been living in the same house. Back in France, when he was younger, he had seen very little of her- despite her being his godmother. She was busy and he was young and had many friends, so their time together was limited.

'I'm sure he misses you too,' he heard Christine say. 'Perhaps you could come for dinner one of the evenings this week? We would love to spend some time with you,'

Raoul nodded his head in agreement but as he did felt a sharp pain behind his eyes. He pinched the top of his nose in the hopes that it would stop and, although the pain did not intensify, he was overcome by dizziness.

When his eyes were finally able to focus he saw that Christine and Madame Giry were both staring at him, their eyes clouded with concern.

'Raoul,' Christine said, but her voice sounded distant, almost muffled, to him. 'Raoul, what is it? What's wrong?'

He glanced at her and blinked the fuzz from his eyes. 'I'm feeling unwell,' he said, and it was about all he could manage.

Christine reached for him as he shook his head, trying to shake away the wooziness. 'Sit down, 'she said, trying to guide him to the side of the room. His feet were mostly steady and he could see, if in a blur, but he really did not feel good.

He felt an arm hook under his shoulders and turned his head to the side, Jack was there, propping him up. 'What's happened?' he asked, but it was clear that he wasn't talking to Raoul.

Christine followed as Jack manoeuvred him into the hallway, where it felt both cooler and quieter.

'I don't know,' she said to him. 'He just… he went very pale,'

'Raoul,' Jack said. 'Are you alright?'

'I feel dizzy,' he answered. 'And tired…'

'Perhaps I should get you home,' Jack suggested.

Raoul managed to nod, although the sensation made his stomach turn over.

'I will let Madame Giry know we are leaving,' Christine said.

Jack looked at her. 'I think you should stay,'

Christine stared at Jack, surprised, 'What?'

'You need to greet the guests,' Jack said, reasonably. 'A lot of them are here because of you,'

Raoul took a sharp intake of breath, 'I agree, you should stay… Jack will make sure you get home alright, I am sure,'

'Of course,' Jack said.

'Christine,' Raoul said, reaching for her hand. 'It won't be for long and I am fine, really, I think just a little tired, perhaps,'

Still, she looked sceptical.

'I will go straight to bed,' he insisted. 'I just need rest,'

Finally she nodded her head and that is where he left her, wishing he did not have to.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Jack returned after just under an hour away from party. In that time Christine had stuck close to Madame Giry, who was definitely more able to cope with these things than she was. She saw him walk in and be immediately accosted by an elderly lady who Christine had not yet been introduced to. He glanced over and caught her attention, giving her a nod indicating he would be over to her as soon as he got the chance.

Watching, she began to feel sorry for him. It was clear that he did not want to speak to the woman and yet he had no way to escape. Momentarily she considered rescuing him, but thought better of it, and instead continued her chat with Madame Giry.

'I don't know how you do this,' Christine said.

The ballet mistress smiled. 'Practice, my dear,'

'I've been to a few but still cannot get used to it,'

'You have been attending them for ten years,' Antoinette Giry explained. 'I have been attending them for nearly thirty,'

Christine actually managed a genuine smile of her own. The first since she had arrived at the ball. 'They're rather dull affairs,'

'I couldn't agree more,' Madame Giry said. 'It's how you deal with it that makes all the difference,'

Christine frowned. 'Will you tell me your secret?'

'But of course,' Madame Giry said, with a twinkle in her eye. 'It is about watching people,'

'Watching people?'

'Oh yes,' she nodded. 'Take the gentleman in the corner for example,'

Christine followed her eyes until she found the man in question, who was standing with his back to them chatting with a woman and another couple. Every so often he would touch the woman's back and then shortly afterwards look to the right.

'What am I looking for?' Christine asked.

Madame Giry sipped her champagne, 'The woman next to him appears to be his wife,'

Christine nodded, following.

'However, he keeps sending furtive glances at the lady in the red dress,'

They both discreetly looked across and saw that the woman in the red dress, standing with two men, was also taking the odd glance in his direction.

'An affair,' Madame Giry exclaimed. 'I am certain of it,'

'How can you be so sure?' Christine said, shocked but unable to stop herself from giggling. Antoinette Giry's eyes were full of mischief and, though unusual, it was good to see her this way.

'What other explanation could there be?' she asked and Christine had to admit that the options were limited.

She shrugged her shoulders. 'They could simply be old friends, wanting to talk to each other,'

'Then why does she not just go to him?'

Madame Giry had a point.

'I would wager money on it,' she said.

Christine was about to comment when two men in black suits joined them at the edge of the room. The taller of the two introduced himself as Graham and offered Christine a glass of champagne. She declined politely and then he asked her how she was looking forward to the opening night. They chatted for a while but Graham made her feel very uncomfortable. He had taken to leaning over when he spoke, which meant that he and she were almost pressed together for much of the time.

When he touched her shoulder without invitation to do so, she was about to protest until she heard Jack behind her.

'Graham,' he said, his voice was even and calm. He stepped closer to them, so that no-one could overhear and then continued, 'I don't think it's very appropriate for you to touch the leading lady,'

Graham smiled at Jack. 'I was only talking to her,'

'With your hand on her?' he asked quietly.

'I meant nothing by it,'

'I'm sure you didn't,' Jack said and then turned to Christine, 'Your husband is fine, a touch of weariness I think,'

'Thank you, Jack,'

'You're very welcome,' he said. 'Are you alright?'

'I'm rather warm, actually,' she said. 'It's hot in here,'

She glanced over Jack's shoulder and noticed that Graham was still standing there, looking at them. 'You'll have to excuse me, Graham,' she said to him, his gaze making her feel uncomfortable. 'I need some air,'

'I'm happy to accompany you,' Graham said and could not have looked more like a lecher if he had been waggling his eyebrows at her.

'Quite alright, Graham,' Jack said, scowling in his direction. 'I will be escorting _Madame_ De Chagny,'

Graham nodded, disappointed.

As Jack guided her away from him he turned his head and said, 'You'll be gone when I get back, won't you?'

Christine did not catch Graham's response as she made her way to the edge of the room but when Jack caught up with her and she turned around, she could no longer see him.

'I'm sorry about him,' Jack said as though it was actually his fault.

'That's fine, Jack,' she said and meant it. Jack was not her protector and she was sure that if Raoul had been well, Graham would never have approached her in the first place.

'I told Antoinette that you needed some air,' Jack informed her. 'She is occupying herself with one of the members of the Baker clan,'

Christine glanced over towards the ballet mistress and nodded. 'Thank you,'

'Shall we step out onto the balcony?' he asked as he held the long curtains open for her.

She nodded and ducked through, out into the fresh air. She felt immediately better as she leant on the wall and stared out over the town.

'Quite the view, isn't it?' Jack said as he stood next to her.

She nodded. 'Oh yes, it's perhaps my favourite place in the whole theatre,'

'Mine too,' Jack said. 'It was a stroke of genius to put it here,'

She turned to him. 'Thank you for taking Raoul home,'

Jack held his hand up. 'No need to thank me, Christine, I'm just glad he looks like he will be on the mend soon,'

'What do you think is wrong with him?' she asked. 'It worries me to see him so pale,'

'I'm sure it was simply something he ate,' he said. 'Or the late nights and hard work catching up with him. Nothing a good night of rest will not cure,'

She touched his hand. 'Again, thank you,'

'Nonsense,' he said. 'I had better go and mingle, as they say, will you be alright out here on your own?'

'Of course,' she replied. 'I will be back in myself shortly, I'm just going to make the most of this moment of peace,'

He nodded and was gone.

She turned again and leaned forward, her arms on the wall as she gazed out at the breathless sight of the town beneath her. The vantage was spectacular and for a moment gave her just that brief sense of being above it all. Above the stress and hard work, above the trials and tribulations.

It was so dark that she could not make out any people below but she knew, as always, that there were people around. The town never seemed to sleep, there always seemed to be something happening and it was comforting to know that she could sometimes simply stand high above.

Gas lamps created a quilt of black and orange across the city and up above, the stars sparkled relentlessly in the clear and smooth sky.

When a chill shivered along her spine she thought nothing of it but moments later she got the distinct impression that she was not alone. Her heart almost stopped, caught in her chest.

'You're here,' she said and it was about all she could manage. She knew it now, the sensation was unforgettable.

'Yes,' he said.

Thoughts and realisations fired in for brain. 'Are you Schwarz?' she asked, too afraid to turn. His voice was enough but to see him, to make it real, seemed just a little too much.

'Yes,'

She shook her head, unsure if she was angry or simply disappointed. 'And Jack?'

'Jack works for me,'

'I know,' she said, her throat dry. 'Does he know? Is this…'

'He knows,'

She laughed. 'I'm such a fool,'

'You're no fool,' his voice was soft, mesmerising… _exactly_ as she remembered it.

'I trusted him,'

'You can still trust him,'

Finally, she spun around, her anger outweighing her fear of seeing him, as she spat, 'How can I? Look at this… one _big_ set up, how can I trust him?' she could only see his mask, he was hidden in the shadow of the building at the other side of the balcony.

'He would never hurt you,' Erik said.

'He works for _you_,' she said, more to herself than to him and then she laughed. 'Well, he _must_ be a man of standards then,'

'There is no need for sarcasm, Christine,' he said, his voice stern and yet the sound of her name from his lips was enough to weaken her resolve.

'Why?' she asked, softer now, in spite of herself.

'Why, what?'

'Do it this way?' Christine asked, stepping forward on trembling knees.

Erik moved out from the shadows, his broad frame and dark face appearing from the blackness. His eyes just as blue and bright as they had always been as they pierced out through the night and found her face. She could barely feel the ground beneath her, it was all so unreal, and yet there he was, as if he had never been away.

Now closer she noticed that the years had been good to him and his hair showed no signs of grey, the smooth side of his face no signs of ageing.

'I have a year,' he said simply, his eyes not leaving hers, not for a second.

They were both stuck there on that balcony, eyes locked, he focused, she frozen.

She swallowed, almost too afraid to ask, 'A year to do what?'

'To win you back,' he said flatly and though his face and voice betrayed nothing his eyes gave _everything_ away.

She laughed bitterly. 'A year will not be long enough,'

He said nothing.

'Do you hear me?' she asked angrily. 'You _cannot_ win me back, you _never_ had me,'

Before she could react she felt his hands on her wrists as he pulled her towards him into the shadows, pressed against her, his lips at her ear, 'I beg to differ,' he whispered.

She pulled but could not loosen his grip and as she fought, she realised that she was fighting because of Raoul and not because she was afraid. All of those years being afraid of him, she now knew, were gone. It was illogical, of course, he could kill her in a heartbeat, but she held no fear in her heart.

'Let me go,' she demanded.

His grip loosened and although she now could, she did not, move away.

'I am happy,' she said to him, all of the anger gone. '_Please_,'

'You're under contract,' he said simply and without emotion.

'To sing,' she pointed out. 'Not to love you,'

She saw the outline of a smile on his face. 'I've missed you,' he said, his voice suddenly soft, _captivating_, and like the softest tune, the brightest light, the prettiest flower, she was drawn to it.

She shook her self and closed her eyes. 'You don't have that right, you left,'

'It was for the best,'

'For whom?' she looked at him.

His eyes darkened, the gentle hue now gone. 'For you, Christine, _always_ for you,'

She shook her head. 'And what about now?'

He stared at her.

'Who is _this_ best for?'

His shoulders moved in an elegant shrug and he replied, 'For you. You might not see it yet, but this is best for you,'

'I am _married_,'

'I know,'

'I have a life,'

'Without singing?' he asked.

She swallowed.

'Your life without singing,' he said. 'Is empty,'

'I have a family, Erik, my life is not empty,'

He looked at her. 'Nor is it whole,'

She wanted to scream at him, she wanted to shout and to tell him that he was wrong, but she knew, deep down that he was not. Without music, without singing, there had _always_ been a part of her missing.

She looked at him, her heart like lead in her chest, confused and saddened, disappointed and angry, she said, 'I loved you, then,'

He did not respond and she wanted to reach for him, at that moment, and shake him.

'You should have stayed or taken me with you,' she said. 'I wanted you to,'

And then he said something that surprised her. 'I made a mistake,' it was an admittance she had never heard him utter before and one she was probably never likely to hear again, but there it was, laid bare before them both.

Still, it did little to close the gap.

'You're too late, Erik,' she said to him.

'I've got a year,' he repeated.

'I've changed,' she insisted.

He nodded, unmoved. 'You're stronger now,'

She blinked her eyes.

'I love you,' he said. 'I did not stop because I had to leave,'

She sighed, heart heavy. 'It's too late,'

'And you love me,' he said, his eyes fixed on hers. 'And you did not stop because I left,'

She said nothing, her throat too constricted for her to even breathe, let alone speak.

'You don't deny it,'

She closed her eyes, 'I don't love you, Erik, I love my husband…' she said, but when she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

* * *

_**A/N: Excuse all typos.**_


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Box five was beautifully furnished and had probably the best finish of all of the boxes in the theatre. Jack sat quietly and patiently, waiting as he had been told. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the ledge in front of him, and looked down at the stage. From here he could see the whole of the stage and the dark orchestra pit below, he could see the lights and the beams above, the curtains to the side.

He sighed. He was feeling melancholy, something he was pretty unused to, and he could not figure out why. The darkness of the empty theatre suited his mood and although he could hear the muffled sounds of the party down the hall, he felt like he could not be in a more peaceful place.

A click alerted him to Schwarz's presence and he turned to face him, standing but moving away from the edge of the box. You never could be too sure with him.

Schwarz moved in and took the seat that Jack had just vacated. He too stared out into the black theatre and said nothing. Jack noted the tired look in Schwarz's eyes and was taken aback by it. It was rare to see him looking so _human_.

'Will she tell him?' Jack asked, quietly but it sounded like he was shouting in the otherwise quiet atmosphere.

Schwarz did not move. 'No,'

'How can you be sure?'

This time the boss turned his head and set his eyes on Jack, 'I just am. I know her,'

'What do you need me to do?' Jack asked, thinking it unwise to question him and unsure of his role now that Christine clearly knew of his involvement.

'Your job is the same as it always was,' Schwarz said. 'Keep them close,'

Jack sighed. 'Will they renege on the contract?'

'No,' the boss replied. 'Because she won't tell Raoul and she won't tell Philippe,'

Jack was sceptical, Christine had seemed so honest to him in the months that he had spent in her company.

'What if she does?'

Schwarz's eyes narrowed. 'She won't,'

Jack shrugged and then immediately regretted the action.

'Do you doubt me, Jack?' he asked.

Jack shook his head.

'Then why all of the questions?'

'I'm sorry,'

'Perhaps guilt,' Schwarz flashed an unnerving smile.

Jack shook his head.

'Good,' the boss said firmly. 'They will honour the contract. She _will_ sing,' Schwarz turned away. 'She always does,'

It was clear to Jack that he had been dismissed and so he left the room, letting the door close behind him. He stood still and stared, for a long time, down the hallway to the door of the ballroom. He was torn and now realised that it was the only time in his life that he had actually questioned his own actions. There was just something about Christine that brought out the better side of him. He wasn't in love with her, God forbid, his life would not have been worth living, but he had a bizarre respect for her.

Schwarz was right. He felt _guilt_. Not for Raoul or Philippe, as far as he was concerned they were just like everyone else he had ever met. No, he felt guilt for Christine. The boss had not looked happy and so he was left to assume that the meeting between the two of them had not gone well. This led to the conclusion that Christine had not been particularly compliant and had probably been unhappy.

He did not really want to be the source of her unhappiness and he was wondering now if it was a good idea for him to see her at all.

With a sigh and some mental effort he heaved his feet forward and trudged back towards the ballroom. Before he entered he took a deep breath, straightened his dinner jacket and placed a smile on his face that might even have fooled Schwarz.

The door opened as a guest exited and he entered at the same time, surveying his surroundings as he stepped into the room. The ball was in full swing, people danced with each other and the music and champagne was flowing freely. When his eyes found Antoinette Giry they found her alone. She spotted him and quickly approached.

'Where is Christine?' she asked and he wondered the same thing himself, letting his eyes scan the room again.

'She was on the balcony,' Jack replied, still smiling but feeling distinctly unnerved.

'Did you leave her there alone?' the ballet mistress asked, surprised.

'No,'

'Then where is she?'

'She is probably still there,' he said.

'I thought you said you had not left her,'

'I didn't leave her alone,' Jack said simply. The truth, at least. 'Perhaps she is still there,'

Antoinette Giry was clearly worried and began to head in the direction of the large windows. As they approached, Christine stepped back through the curtains and looked up at them. Her eyes met Antoinette's first and she gave her what was obviously a forced smile.

When they met Jack's, there was no such effort.

'Are you alright?' Antoinette asked her, placing a hand on her shoulder. 'You're freezing,'

Christine glanced at her. 'I'm fine, thank you, Madame,'

'Are you sure?' the ballet mistress asked. 'Honestly, you look like you've seen a ghost,'

At that, Christine laughed, it was a full laugh but there was no warmth to it and Antoinette looked nearly as taken aback as Jack felt.

'Really,' she said. 'I'm fine,'

Both women turned to Jack, one of them looking truly confused and the other simmering with rage. Christine finally said, 'I would like to leave now,'

Jack nodded, there was no point in arguing with her. As she was saying goodbye to the baffled and concerned Antoinette Giry, Jack went in search of her shawl. When he returned, Christine was standing alone, her eyes alive with anger. She snatched the shawl from his hands and flung it over her shoulders, turning and leaving him in her dust.

For a moment he was struck dumb but he regained his senses and quickly followed her from the room. At the front of the theatre his cab was waiting and Christine got in without help and sat with her face turned to the window and away from him.

He instructed the driver to move and then said to Christine, 'I'm sorry,'

She turned to face him. 'Oh, I'm sure you are,'

'Christine…'

'How dare you!' she said, her voice thick with fury.

'I _am_ sorry,'

'I should have known,' she said, and for a moment he was unsure whether she was talking to him or to herself. 'You're a scoundrel Jack Aldridge and you have betrayed me,'

'I didn't know you,' he said to her, as if it was a defence. For a brief moment his mind whirred and he wondered why he was explaining himself to her. In an instant the feeling was gone and he _knew_ why. She was innocent and he was guilty.

Guilty of just about everything.

'Well, I suppose that's alright then,' she snapped.

'He is my boss,' Jack said. 'I was only following orders,'

She scoffed at him, her eyes burning and as intense as he had ever seen them.

'He's probably the only friend I've got,' Jack admitted.

'Then I am sorry for you,' she said with a sharp shake of her head. 'But no less angry,'

'He doesn't want to hurt you,' Jack explained, as if this might actually change anything.

'And yet somehow he does,'

Jack once again wondered about their relationship and gave her the one thing he knew to be entirely true, without having ever being told, 'He loves you,'

She laughed and the tone was harsh, 'I wonder whether he knows what love really is,'

Jack sat still and a silence filled the carriage, uncomfortable and tense.

Christine broke it, in a small voice she said, 'I was your friend,'

Jack shook his head. 'If not for this, you and your family would not have glanced twice at me,'

'You know nothing about me,'

He could not argue with this and so he asked, 'What will you tell Raoul?'

'I should tell him the truth,' she said. 'And then leave, never look back,'

'But will you?'

She turned away from him and looked out of the carriage window.

'Christine,'

'No,' she said quietly. 'I won't,'

'Can I ask why not?'

She laughed again, sounding more angry than amused. 'Ask whatever you like,'

'Then why not?'

'Because I don't want to leave,' she said softly.

He was surprised. 'I don't understand…'

'This isn't about Erik,'

'Erik?'

Again, the laugh. 'Schwarz,'

He nodded.

'This is about me,' she said. 'I won't love him and I want him to stay away from me but he has done what he always does,'

'What?'

'He has given me music again,' she said, her voice almost too quiet to hear. 'And I like it, I've missed it… I won't admit it to him but…'

'I won't tell him,'

'Who knows what you will do?' she said, a hint of anger returning to her voice.

'I do,'

'I wonder,'

He shook his head.

'You're frightened of him,' she said. 'You must be,'

'I won't deny it,'

'Do you see what he is capable of?' she asked.

He nodded, 'Yes,'

'So why work for him?' she asked.

'He has been very good to me,' Jack replied honestly. 'He had paid me well, fed me… I am not the best of men myself, Christine,'

'I see that,'

The comment stung more than he cared to admit. 'I _am_ sorry,'

'Forgive me for no longer believing a word you say,' she said, her tone an icy cool that in the months he had known her, he would have sworn she was incapable of.

'I understand,'

'I want you to stay away from me,' she said, as they approached her street.

Jack sighed loudly. 'I can't do that,'

'You must,'

'I can't,' he said. 'I have my orders,'

'Do you really think he needs you to watch me?' she asked. 'He can watch me anytime he wishes and he knows it,'

Jack frowned at her unsure what she meant but she was not about to explain herself.

'You really don't know anything about him, do you?'

'I know what I need to know,' Jack replied.

'Which is nothing?'

He didn't reply.

'He is … the master of disguise, of stealth,' she said to him. 'I've never known anyone who could sneak up on someone the way he does…'

'You almost sound like you admire him,'

She scowled. 'It's not supposed to sound that way, I promise you,'

Jack wasn't so sure.

'He thinks he can take whatever he wants, he has never been any different,' she said.

'He can,'

'He cannot,' she said, a little too loudly. 'He _cannot_,'

The cab pulled to a stop but neither of them moved.

'I trusted you,' she said, after a long a silence.

'I know…'

'But that was the idea wasn't it?' she said, her eyes so hard, they had lost their glimmer and their warmth and Jack felt like hell.

Jack nodded.

'And this is how you earn your living,' her voice was low and firm. 'No wonder you have no friends and no family,'

He did not say anything because he did not feel like he _could_ say anything.

She was staring at him, 'Perhaps you should rethink your career choice,'

This time it was Jack's turn to laugh, 'It's too late for that,'

'It's never too late,' she said, and if he had not known better he would have sworn that her voice had softened.

'It's thirty years too late,' he said, thinking of his childhood, of all of the years out in the cold needing to build his own life, his own way. It was not perfect and in some instances, such as this, it was almost indefensible, but it was his life. He earned money that kept him from the breadline and he lived well and, for the most part, kind of liked the work.

Christine opened her door and began to climb out, this time he made no attempt to help her knowing that any effort in that direction was likely to result in something rather unpleasant. When she stepped down she turned back to him.

'Stay away from me,' she insisted.

He shrugged his shoulders and she was gone.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Lots of great reviews that I will try to answer shortly, if I don't get chance- thank you! **

**For this chapter I urge you all to remember who Erik is, because although the recollection contained within this chapter might seem extreme to some, I'm not sure it's too farfetched. **

**I hope you like it.**

**Chapter 16**

With trembling hands she closed the inner door quietly behind her. Her mind was racing and she could barely keep it on one thing or another without it flicking off in a completely separate direction. For brief moments earlier, when she was finally alone on the balcony, she had wondered if this whole thing had been engineered; them leaving France and ending up in New York, Philippe whittling away their wealth at a ridiculous pace.

The thoughts of a conspiracy were quick to subside. It was all Philippe, that part at least. It was Philippe's idea to move across the ocean and it was his idea to throw money away as if it was rubbish. Erik had not planned that part, he had simply _known_ that she was in America and once again the unnerving feeling of being watched was back and prominent.

Other thoughts that entered her mind were: how had Jack so easily befriended Philippe? She admitted that the man was a fool but he did not let any old person into his circle, although apparently, once they were in, he was more than happy to be duped by them. Also, how much did Jack _really_ know? He seemed so well informed about certain things and yet utterly clueless of others.

She entered the dining room and poured herself a large sherry, hoping that the liquid could ease her shaky nerves. As she sipped, more thoughts, more realisations, more truth pummelled her like fists. Jack had been in their home, had spent time alone with their son, and now she realised that they could not trust him. Philippe continuing to drink, despite Raoul's warnings that it would cause his profit harm. The beautifully, hand carved arches… without words they had Erik written all over them and the fact that she should have seen it all along sickened her.

_Raoul's sudden illness_.

Her heart flew to her mouth. She had only Jack's word that he was alright and now she felt a hot jolt of panic race up her spine. She leapt to her feet and ascended the stairs faster than she had ever done before. Throwing herself to the bed, clutching her husband's face in her hands, feeling his warmth, seeing his eyes open…

'Christine, whatever is the matter?' he asked, no grogginess from sleep, he could clearly see the alarm in her eyes and he was suddenly wide awake.

She swallowed, Erik prominent in her mind. She could still see him, as though he were standing right next to her. 'I was worried,' she said, laying a soft kiss to his forehead and letting go of his face, all the time trying to steady her breathing and pounding heart.

Raoul sat up and stared at her. The room was dark but neither Raoul nor Jack had closed the curtains and so the light from the lamps outside and the moon above lit their faces. 'You're cold,'

It was not the first time she had heard that, that evening but she forced a smile and, then, forced a lie to the one man she knew she had no right to lie to. 'I'm fine,'

'Then why the panic?' he asked, reaching for her arms so that he could rub her shoulders in an attempt to comfort and warm her.

'I should not have let you come home alone,' she said, without really addressing his question. What answer could she possibly give him? I raced up here because I thought that Erik had poisoned you… there were more questions than answers at that moment and she did not feel that she was quite ready to deal with either.

'I feel fine now,' he said, reassuringly. 'I must have needed the sleep,'

She glanced at the clock on the mantel, it was after midnight and Raoul had been sleeping for a few hours. She allowed herself to wonder what they had been slipped into his drink.

'You must have,' she said, and touched his cheek. He placed his hand over hers and pressed it to his face, the warmth of his palm was familiar and soothing.

'Are you sure that everything is alright?' he asked, his eyes brimming with concern.

She nodded, heart rate slowing returning to what felt, at least nearly, normal. 'I'm just glad that you're feeling better,'

He smiled. It was such a warm smile, so genuine and real, and it spread to the whole of his face and touched his eyes, making them sparkle each time. His smile was never changing, even if everything else was.

'I am going to check on Benoit,' she said to him, standing. 'Then I will come to bed,'

He nodded, looking tired again, and by the time she had made it to the doorway she knew that he was asleep.

Benoit's bedroom was at the other end of the corridor but on the same side. She cracked the door open as carefully and as quietly as she could, and tiptoed inside. His bed was under the window and his drapes were tightly closed, she could only just see his little body under the masses of quilt.

She pulled the blankets up to his chin hoping not to wake him but could not resist stroking his hair and kissing his forehead. Slowly his eyes blinked open and she whispered a gentle apology.

'You're home,' he said, his voice clouded with sleep.

'I am,' she said as she shushed him softly. 'I'm sorry I woke you, go back to sleep,'

His eyes dropped and he smiled, 'Goodnight mama,' he said.

'Goodnight, sweetheart,' she said, feeling her throat catch and tears make their way to her eyes. She watched quietly as he drifted back into peaceful sleep, her beautiful, sweet boy. A long time past before she could move and when she did, she slipped back into the corridor and sighed. Her back pressed to the wall, she rested her head back and swallowed hard.

Rage, fear… _sorrow_… emotions swirled within her and none came to the surface, all instead choosing to comingle in her heart and mind. If she was honest with herself she would admit that she did not know what to feel. Deep down she knew that she should tell Raoul but then that would be the end and also break their contract. She knew Erik well enough to know that this would never be accepted.

But how could she continue to lie to her husband… _again_?

* * *

Jack sat in the cab staring in the direction of Christine's home for a very long time after the door had slammed shut behind her. He had found the whole issue, the entire confrontation, utterly disturbing and had not even been close to being in control of it. Not really knowing what to do, or how to solve the problem now, he took once last glance towards the house and then prompted the driver to continue straight.

He had no idea where he was going, he needed to be alone and he needed the air, the carriage and a long journey seemed as good a plan as any. After all, it was about the only plan he had got.

Years ago, a man had spoken to him in much the same way as Christine just had. Spitting bitter insults and jabbing anger in his direction. The man had not faired nearly as well as Christine. Neither of them had seemed to understand that he had a job to do. The man ended up with a broken hand and several teeth missing, and a threat on his family.

He had towed the line ever since.

On that occasion and on many, similar, since and before, he had felt no guilt or remorse whatsoever. His whole life had been filled with jobs such as this and never before had he had any problems with what he was doing nor had he let anyone speak to him in such a way. It was the first and last time it would happen.

The unusually quiet streets of New York were peaceful and comforting. He loved the night. It was because of this that Schwarz… _Erik_ Schwarz… had hired him in the first place. On the surface of his business was the reputable theatres, the entertainment centres, the fun that other people had. Underneath were the things that Jack dealt with, the blackmail, the threats and the not quite so legitimate contracts.

It wasn't that Schwarz was above doing this work himself, Jack had seen him in action more than once and certainly did not want to see it again, it was just that he was busy. Jack was convenient, not too expensive, worked hard and was efficient, what more would an employer want?

Jack smiled to himself.

Christine had been right to suggest that Jack was afraid of Schwarz. He was afraid of him and had few qualms about admitting it. Schwarz was a terrifying character. Once, when Jack had first started working for him, he discovered that one of the builders was stealing timber from the yard. Jack had been sent to warn the foreman, gently. When it did not stop he warned the builder, a little more firmly. Finally, after that did not work, in the dead of night Schwarz and Jack found him at the seawall.

One minute Schwarz was standing next to Jack, the next he could find him nowhere. Jack confronted the builder, who was drunk, but seemed to get nowhere. Out of the blue, Schwarz was behind the builder. He dragged him kicking and pleading to the edge of the wall overlooking the ocean and held him, one handed over the edge. Jack remembered that the ocean was vicious beneath, bouncing up the wall violently, and he likened the waves to twisted hands clawing up wall.

Schwarz had looked down at the builder and had said, 'You've been stealing from me,'

The builder had struggled but to little effect.

'I asked you to stop,'

'Please,' the builder had said. 'I have a family, I can't swim,'

Schwarz had actually chuckled, 'Are you sorry?'

The builder nodded upside down, one of the strangest things Jack had ever seen.

'Will you pay me back for what you stole from me?' Schwarz had asked him.

The builder, seeing his way out, had nodded more frantically. 'I'm sorry,' he had said, fear tinged with hope in his voice. 'I will pay you back,'

Schwarz had pulled him in and dropped him onto the ground. The builder had been breathless and terrified but he looked relieved. Schwarz turned and looked at Jack, though his face was neutral something in his eyes made Jack pause and hold his breath.

The builder had pulled himself to his feet and there was barely any distance between the two of them when the builder said, 'Thank you sir,'

Schwarz did not turn. 'You don't have a family,'

The builder had looked nearly as confused as Jack felt.

'You lied to me,'

'But…'

'Don't compound it further,' Schwarz had said, sounding a little _too_ calm.

Jack remembered his blood running cold.

'I'm sorry,'

Schwarz had turned quickly and, with two hands, pushed the builder in the chest. The builder had stumbled backwards, caught his foot on the edge of the wall and with a scream tumbled down into the ocean.

Jack had stared at Schwarz, 'He will drown,'

Schwarz had shrugged his wide shoulders. 'Does that bother you?'

_Did it?_

'No,' he had replied.

'He won't drown,'

Jack had frowned at him.

'I suspect he is already dead,' Schwarz had explained. 'I should think he cracked his skull on the way down and if not then, when the waves threw him into the wall,'

Jack had said nothing more.

The clunking of the carriage over a hole on the road jolted him back to the present and he glanced up and out of the window. He recognised the street and asked the driver to pull up in front of a small house a little further down the road.

When they arrived Jack sat quietly and stared at the upstairs front window. There was no light from within and the curtains were closed. For a long moment he considered going to the door and knocking.

The driver turned to him, 'You want to get out here?'

Jack's heart somehow ended up in his mouth. It was tempting to get out, but he knew better. Not only was it late but he was not welcome anyway.

'No,' Jack replied, finally. 'Just… take me home,'

'Yes sir,' the driver said.

Jack felt empty.

* * *

**A/N2: Excuse any errors in this. I haven't had chance to give it another thorough proof read before posting. I'm determined that I will continue to update at least once a week and so I must apologies for any mistakes.**

**A/N3: FF still doing away with my underlining!**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Thank you for the great reviews. Lots of Erik to come and as this goes on there will be more and more interaction between him and Christine. I don't really know how many chapters it will take to get the whole story told so I can't tell you quite when this will be done. However, I have written 27 chapters. **

**As always, the reviews are very much appreciated.**

**Chapter 17**

It had been a quiet morning, that was for sure, and Tony was keeping himself busy tidying the desks at the front of the building. He was young and small, pleased to have a job but nervous about everything all the same. As he wiped the surface of the front desk and then began to polish it, he smiled at himself in the new gleam.

He was aware that some of the office snobs were staring at him, as they always did, but he didn't care. It didn't bother him that they thought he was beneath them and it didn't bother him that he didn't earn as much money as they did. He was just glad to be working, doing whatever, so that he could eventually ask Georgina to marry him.

Tony had always been of a _more than normal_ nervous disposition but he was learning to control it, over time. His job was simple. All he had to do was keep the lobby looking clean, take out the trash and polish the desks. While he was doing this he should keep his ears and eyes open and report anything unusual directly to Mr Schwarz without delay.

What the snobs didn't know was that he was the only person in the whole building with the privilege of being able to go up to the boss man any time he wanted. Well, almost anytime, anyway. He was kind of the spy. Had a certain ring to it.

On that particular morning there was a sharp breeze drifting around and blowing leaves and litter into the building whenever someone came in through the front door. He didn't complain though, it wasn't autumn or winter anymore and so there weren't too many leaves on the floor. The litter was a different matter, but he could deal with that.

As he bent over to pick up another piece of cast aside newspaper his eyes found feet, and then ankle, and then dress, shoulders, neck and finally, the face of perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. She was tall and slim, shoulders so white and soft they looked like rose petals, she had dark eyes and loose curly hair the colour of polished wood.

He stood to greet her but when he opened his mouth she simply stepped past him and made her way to the front desk. When he caught up to her he asked, 'Can I help you?'

She turned back to him and said, 'I'm looking for Mr Schwarz,' she said, and he noticed that her voice was accented, similar to the boss. He wondered if she was German too.

'Do you have an appointment?' he asked, knowing that she didn't. He knew that Schwarz rarely made appointments with anyone, he usually let Jack deal with most people and important clients never came in through the lobby anyway.

'No,' she said. Tony was relieved that she didn't lie at least he could avoid _that_ awkwardness.

'Maybe you should make an appointment and come back another time,' he suggested.

She raised her eyebrows at him. 'I don't think so,'

'He doesn't see anyone without an appointment,'

'He will see me,' she said, sternly but not angrily.

She went to move past him but he stepped in her path and said, 'I can't let you do that, miss,'

She nodded her head and as she turned to him, dropped her shawl on the floor. Tony stuttered a little but then bent down to pick it up, which, in hindsight, was a mistake, because by the time he had stood up she was standing in the lift telling Geoff to take her to the correct floor.

Geoff hated Tony and so, seeing that Tony needed to stop her, Geoff simply clicked the lift doors shut and began to operate the machinery upwards. Tony watched as the machine pulled away and then he bolted up the stairs.

This was a _disaster_!

* * *

Erik signed another form with his fake surname and then added it to the pile of papers in the shallow box to his left. The desk he used was absolutely huge, too big really, but the shine and polish on it was so exquisite he kept it. Even though he spent very little time in the office anyway. He lifted another sheet to read but found that his heart was not in it and so placed it back down again.

He rose and paced to the window, looking down at New York and the thousands of people therein, wondering if any of them could possibly feel the way he did at that moment. He had spent years rebuilding his life, creating a business that was not only viable but lucrative. Obviously, he had fallen back on what he knew. Entertainment was his game, even if it had not always been to everyone's taste.

He ached to write music again, to play and to sing but he knew that it was too soon for his kind of music and perhaps always would be. The Opera would open its doors in four days and he would see Carmen, for perhaps the thousandth time, but this time he would see Christine.

Involuntarily his eyes closed and he sighed.

Over the years he had kept a watchful eye on her progress but some years ago the news stories stopped and she, without reason, disappeared from the opera scene. Shortly after, she arrived in America, and to his disbelief, New York.

Letting her go had been, perhaps, the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life and in his life he had done some _extraordinarily_ difficult things. When she arrived in America, in the very same town as he, he knew that it was fate. The gods, should they actually exist, were playing with him.

Erik was no fool. He knew that he still loved her and that he could not forget her. He never could. For the first two years after her arrival in America he had restrained himself, continued to build his reputation and his business, ignoring as best he could her presence in the very same town that he now lived.

Despite his best efforts to forget, to let it go, a plot formulated in his mind and though he tried to shake it, _and he did try_, it would not leave him.

And so he set the ball rolling, as it were.

Knowing of Philippe's little problems as well as he did, it was all just a little bit too easy. So easy, in fact, that it _almost_ took the sport out of it.

Still, perhaps this was where the sport truly began.

For months, then, Erik stayed away. He let Jack deal with the de Chagny's… _with Christine_, until eventually he could take no more. The night of the ball, an occasion created to draw her close to him, Jack drugged Raoul's drink and removed him from the equation, to be dealt with at a later date. Jack did his job well and then finally, carefully, engineered the meeting between Erik and Christine outside on the balcony.

When she had first stepped outside he had been breathless, her beauty and elegance unchanged and yet she had a confidence, a _poise_, that he had never seen in her before. It was new, it was fresh and it was wonderful.

For what seemed an eternity Erik hid in the shadows while Jack chatted to her but, finally, _blissfully_, they were alone.

He had stood for a moment, drinking her in as she stared into the vastness of the night, but finally she felt him, as she always did. He did not expect her anger to be quite so vehement but she was indeed different, if then still the same. When they were close she still smelt and looked like the Christine he had always loved but now she had a fire to her.

_She was irresistible. _

He left, before she could say something that they would both regret, but as he did he knew that nothing had changed between them. Not really.

He stood at the window and let the sun touch his face. It was so rare for him to allow daylight in that he just let himself feel it for a moment. He had always loved the darkness but there was something about the sun, just recently, that he found somewhat comforting.

He was just starting to feel more relaxed when his peace was abruptly shattered as the door to his office burst open, smacking against the wall behind it with a loud _thud_.

He turned quickly, slipping his dagger into his palm ready to fight, but found only Christine standing in his doorway. This was a whole different type of fight, he thought to himself, and hid the knife back in his sleeve.

He made no move towards her nor she to him, but as he was about to speak his mole burst in, sweating and stammering.

'I'm sorry, sir,' Tony stuttered. 'I… she just… '

The boy looked terrified and the sight of him so panicked and dishevelled amused Erik somewhat. 'Its fine, Tony, leave us,' he said, with a wave of his hand, dismissing the young employee.

The boy didn't need to be told twice and he darted from the door nearly as quickly as he had arrived, leaving Erik and Christine alone in the office.

Over nine years apart and then twice in one week he found himself completely alone with her.

They stood, for a long time, staring at each other. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, she was stunning.

'So soon,' Erik said, breaking the silence.

Christine reached behind her and closed the door. 'We need to talk,'

'Please,' Erik said, indicating to the chair. Christine's eyes narrowed with suspicion but she took the offer anyway.

'We will fulfil our contract,' she said suddenly, without looking up at him.

'And does Raoul agree with your decision?' he asked, knowing very well that _le Vicomte_ knew nothing of his presence in New York.

'When have you ever cared about what Raoul thinks?' she asked bitterly.

'Ever since he started thinking that you belonged to him,' Erik replied.

Anger burned behind Christine's eyes and he could see her trying to control it, he knew the feeling well and recognised the signs. Clenched fists, taut lips…

'You will fulfil your contract,' he prompted.

'And then we will leave,' she told him.

He paused, 'We'll see,'

'You can't keep me here,' she said angrily.

'I'm not keeping you here,' he informed her calmly.

'But you are Erik,' she said. 'We are tied into a contract with you…'

'The contract is hardly watertight, Christine,' Erik said. 'You can get out and only lose the money you have already paid in,'

Her eyes fixed on his and she stood abruptly.

'You _want_ to stay,' he said. 'Or you would be gone by now,'

'It isn't for you,'

'When did I say that it was?' he asked innocently. Her words, of course, stung him as they always did but as far as he was concerned, he was simply happy that she was there.

She shook her head, her body tense with rage. 'I cannot believe I am allowing you to manipulate me again,'

Erik said nothing.

'You have brought me here under false pretences, you have used my love of music to control me,' she said. 'You have used Philippe and Raoul… you have no thought for anyone besides yourself,' she turned and quickly moved towards the door.

'I think of you,' Erik said honestly. Christine stopped. 'You know I do,'

She glanced over her shoulder, 'You should have left things as they were, Erik,'

'How could I?' he asked, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest.

She turned to face him. 'How long have you known that I was here?'

'Since you arrived,' he answered.

She laughed. 'This was a plan two years in the making?'

'No,'

Her eyes softened. 'Then why now?'

'I could bear it no more,' he replied. 'Knowing that you were so close and yet not being near you…'

'This has to stop, Erik,' she said firmly.

Silence fell between them, the distance there now seemed somehow insurmountable, and though she stood merely footsteps away from him he feared that they could not possibly be any further apart. Christine's anger had dissipated and what remained was a hurt and disappointed woman, one that he had loved for over a decade and could not give up, no matter how he tried.

'What will you do at the end?' she asked him, shattering the taut air.

He didn't say anything because he did not know what to say.

'When my contract is over and I leave with Raoul,' she said, not accepting of his silence. 'What will you do then?'

_What would he do_? The usual temptation remained; to be rid of le Vicomte and take Christine, whether she agreed or not.

'Will you hurt us?' she asked, her eyes fixed on him.

'I would never hurt you,'

She stared at him for a long moment before saying, quietly, 'I know,'

'Perhaps I will be satisfied with hearing you sing again,' he said and then, despite his better judgement asked, 'Why did you ever stop?'

'I…' she swallowed. 'I sang for years after you left,'

'But you _did_ stop,'

She nodded. 'Because we were moving here,'

He blinked at the lie. 'You stopped before that,'

Christine sighed and turned around, with her back to him and her hand on the door handle she said, 'Please, let this go,'

Although he wanted to reach out and grab her hand, pull her to him and make her stay, he resisted and simply watched her walk away.

It never did get any easier.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Your reviews are always great but a few for the last chapter were brilliant. I love that people are trying to pull this apart and work out how it will end, how it will all come together. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed simply for taking the time. Personal replies are on the way, if you haven't already had them!**

**I wasn't sure about this chapter but it stays now as it is too late to change it!**

**Chapter 18**

For the next couple of days Erik played that meeting in his office over and over in his mind until he could bear it no more. He had intricately analysed every aspect of the short, yet overwrought, meeting, going over the words, the actions, _the tone_. Still, he came up with no conclusions. At the end of Christine's visit he had felt the usual dull ache in his heart, that damaging feeling of rejection, feelings he was used to and yet, they still hurt all the same.

Over the course of his musing he had begun to feel better about the whole thing. After all, why would she visit him to simply tell him that she was fulfilling her contact? He had not, for one moment, considered the prospect that she would not. She had given him no indication that she intended to quit and so she had no reason to storm into his office aside from the fact that she wanted to see him.

On the other hand, she had been furious with him. Her eyes, her body, every inch of her had been rigid with frustration and he could not miss it, he often felt it himself.

She was beautiful when she was angry.

_Let it go_, she had said, but how could he?

How could he let it go, after all this time, all of these years? How could he turn his back and forget this, now that she was back in his life? How could he let her leave again, now that he had her so close? He was convinced that, in the remaining eight months of her contract, he could win her around.

She might deny it now but he knew that he once had her heart. Though he had not mentioned that night to her he had alluded to it and she had told him, the night on the balcony, that she had loved him. Erik knew from experience that this kind of feeling, this kind of love, did not dissipate with ease. It did not just dissolve into nothing, it did not leave you. Once you have loved like that you never stopped, it never left, it never died.

_She had loved him_. She had told him. He had seen it, he had felt it and he had _known_ it.

As painful as her rejections had always been and would always be, he knew that deep down something must remain, some _love,_ if only fleeting. Erik had changed, he had worked hard. No longer was he a complete social outcast, he did not live in a cave, he was not afraid to go out into the daylight. He was convinced that over time she would see him again for what he was then and what he had become now.

Of course, there were some things that would never change. He would always do things his way and he would always win. Although he ventured out in the daylight he still preferred the darkness, the night. His face was no different, he still did not own more than one mirror and his temper was still fierce. They were facets of his character that he either could not or would not change.

Not even for Christine.

Yet, he was different. He was much calmer. He wondered if it was his age or the fact that he now lived in a country where he could easily get what he wanted. Either way, he was more in control of his temper… even if it was as fierce when he finally succumbed to it.

When he heard voices at the end of the corridor behind the stage, he slipped quietly into the shadows, blending into the blackness. He did this out of habit now, not necessity, but it was still a useful trick.

'Yes of course,' he heard the female voice. Youthful and _irritatingly_ high pitched.

'In which case,' the other woman said, and he recognised her voice immediately. 'I will see you tomorrow,'

'Thank you!' the young squeak said and then went off down the corridor and out of sight, leaving her mistress alone in the dimness of the hallway.

Erik waited a moment and when the woman walked past him, he slid from the blackness and stood behind her.

'Antoinette,' he said, ensuring that his voice remained soft so as not to startle her. Unfortunately, it did not have quite the desired effect and she jumped around, her hand flying to her mouth.

'It can't be,' she said, her voice quiet behind her fingers.

He managed a smile, one he used rarely. She stepped closer.

'It _is_ you,' she said.

He nodded. 'How are you, my friend?'

She stared for a long moment before saying, 'Shocked,'

Again, he smiled. 'It is good to see you,'

Her eyes remained fixed to his face as she searched her mind. He knew what she was thinking and he knew that she was torn. Her loyalty to Christine was one of a motherly kind and she cared for le vicomte but she had always, _always_, been his confidante. After what seemed an eternity she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him close.

'You have filled out,' she said, patting his sides.

He laughed. 'Are you saying that I am fat, Madame?'

She laughed and he was warmed by the sound. 'Not at all, you look _wonderful_,' she pulled back and touched his hair. 'Not even a _hint_ of grey,'

He ignored the comment and said, 'You look very well yourself, Antoinette,'

She grinned, which was so unusual for her it took him aback. 'It's been many years since someone spoke my name so beautifully… I have missed you my friend,'

'And I you,' he said and he meant it, wholeheartedly. She was one of only two true friends he had ever known. Leaving her at the port in Calais all those years ago had been a very difficult thing to do. She had no idea where he was going and neither did he. He did not feel any sadness though because somehow he knew that they would meet again.

'So, _you_ are Schwarz then?' she asked although the glimmer in her eyes told him that she knew.

'You didn't suspect?' he asked.

She shook her head, rolled her eyes, 'I feel like I should have now, though,'

He nodded.

'Schwarz,' she laughed. 'Monsieur Noir, Mister Black… and _Verkleiden_…'

'I had to reinvent myself,' he said.

'Not too much though, I see,' she said with a _tsk_. 'Hiding in the shadows,'

At this he smiled again. 'Old habits die hard,'

A moment of quiet eased into their space and although they were both comfortable in it, it felt to him as though something needed to be said. It was as if there was something hanging there between them.

Antoinette's curious eyes found his and it was his old friend that broke the silence, 'You are different,'

'Not so much,'

'Your face is tanned,' she said. 'From the sun…'

He nodded.

She shook her head. 'I remember a time, not so long ago, you would rarely leave your home, even at night,'

'America is different,'

'You smile more,'

'With good reason,' he said, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, 'I'm rich,'

She tapped his shoulder with her palm, 'You were rich before,' and then, suddenly, her expression was serious. 'Does she know?'

He glanced up, knowing exactly who she was talking about but wanting to forget it all for a moment.

'Christine…' she clarified, although it was evident to both of them that there was no confusion.

'She knows,'

'From the start?'

He shook his head.

'The ball,' she said, with realisation.

'Yes,' he said.

'She has been here for years, Erik, why leave it until now?'

He turned away from her not wanting her to see his face, 'I tried, I failed… she is an addiction,'

He felt her hand on his shoulder. 'She is as dangerous as one for you,'

'I'm not afraid,' he said, turning to face her.

She smiled at him. 'I know that, Erik, even as a teenager you feared nothing,'

He didn't respond.

'It wasn't healthy then and it is not healthy now,'

If anyone else even attempted to lecture him in this fashion they would find themselves caught in a precarious position between life and death. Antoinette Giry was the only person, barring one other, that he would tolerate in this way.

Sometimes, he even listened to her.

'She has not told Raoul,' Antoinette said to him.

'No,'

'Eventually, he will find out,' she said.

'Of course,' Erik said. He knew that Raoul would indeed, find out. Over time it would be increasingly difficult to avoid the occurrence, but so far he had managed to do just that. He was not worried, though, not even in the slightest. The only thing he ever worried about was Christine.

'He will be angry,'

Erik laughed. 'I'm not scared of his anger,'

Antoinette looked serious, 'I know, Erik, and with your intelligence and strength you have no reason to fear a battle with Vicomte de Changy,'

'But...' He said, knowing that one was about to follow.

'He will take her back to Paris,' she told him. 'You know that,'

'By then, perhaps she will not want to go back to Paris,' he said.

Antoinette reached out and held his hand in hers, her palm was warm and familiar and he felt as though they had never been apart. She knew him and he knew her, as if it were only yesterday they were conversing beneath the Opera Populaire, hidden away from prying eyes.

'This won't end well, Erik,'

A small bubble of anger developed in his stomach but one look at the concern in her eyes burst it immediately. 'It will end how it ends,' he shrugged.

She nodded, knowing that the conversation was over.

'How is your daughter?' he asked. He did not care much for Meg Giry but it always made Antoinette happy when he asked, so he did.

'She is getting married,'

This surprised him. He wasn't quite sure why anyone would marry such an irksome girl. Antoinette must have seen the confused look on his face because she smiled and said, 'She is not seventeen anymore, Erik,'

Even so, he wondered if the gentleman in question had truly lost his mind. 'So, she is fairing well, then?'

'She is,' Antoinette replied.

'Good,' he said with a nod. The only reason that Meg's health and well being even remotely interested him was that if Meg was happy then so was Antoinette, if she was hurt… so was Antoinette.

'Have you seen Nadir?' she asked, suddenly.

He shook his head and felt heavy at the mention of his other friend's name. 'The last I heard from him was around a year ago, he was unwell,'

Antoinette nodded. 'I haven't seen him in longer than that,'

Erik said nothing.

'He was hurt when you left without him,' Antoinette told him after long pause.

'I couldn't let him come,'

Antoinette shrugged. 'I understand but he wanted to help you,'

'He survived,'

'Yes, he was good at that,'

Erik looked at her. 'You think he's dead,'

She sighed. 'It is a possibility,'

'I would have heard,' Erik insisted, though he wondered if he really would have.

'And who would have sent word?' she asked. 'No one knows that you are here,'

'Someone would have told you though, surely,' Erik said and he did not want to think of his friend as gone.

'Perhaps,' she said. 'I'm sorry for the depressing conversation,'

'I love nothing more than a depressing conversation,' he said forcing a smile. 'It makes a change for there to be a different source other than me,'

This time it was Antoinette that broke into a smile. 'You're not all bad,'

'Don't let too many people hear you say that,' he said. 'I have a reputation to maintain,'

She smiled and kissed his cheek, slipping her arm through his and walking along the corridor with him. 'I'm sure you do,' she said. 'Enough of this, tell me what you have been doing,'

Suddenly, he felt very at home.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Thank you for all of the great reviews, as usual! A couple of things to answer here:**

**Erik and Benoit have not met. It is unlikely that he would not know of his existence and yet, up to now, has no reason to suspect anything else about the child.**

**There is more to come from Jack- whether or not he redeems himself is yet to be seen but he is essential to the progression of this story.**

**Why would Christine not tell Raoul about Erik… perhaps because she does not want to leave yet? More on that to come…**

**I'm sorry if anyone considered the last chapter too short but it is the nature of writing that some will be shorter than others. I think I am averaging just over 2,400 words per chapter and consider this pretty reasonable. Also, no chapter has been less than 2000 words but I can see how some might prefer longer chapters, so accept my apologies.**

**Onwards…**

**Chapter 19**

Nerves aside, she actually felt very good about the opening night. She had just left Raoul and Benoit near the main entrance, so that they could enjoy the pre theatre atmosphere, and headed around to the back of the theatre. It was quiet, at the moment, because most people would arrive a little later. Over the years she had become accustomed to arriving early. It was just _her way_ now.

She liked the stillness, the quiet emptiness, of the backstage area. So often was it bustling that it was a rarity to find such peace in a building that held so many. The only thing she really missed about her early days shortly after her marriage to Raoul was the presence of her friend Meg Giry. Although not one to arrive too early, she usually came just early enough to spend a quiet moment with Christine just behind the curtains on the stage.

Alone now she wondered how her friend was and how life was treating her. They rarely found time to correspond and so Christine was left with second hand tales that Madame Giry happily told. The young Giry was due to marry in less than one month and Christine sensed her happiness in the letters to her mother.

Of course, Madame Giry was sad that she would not be able to see her only child married but they had promised that at the earliest opportunity, they would honeymoon in America and stop by in Manhattan to visit. Not only did this bring a smile to Madame Giry but also to Christine.

She had friends in America, of course she did, she had never found it particularly difficult to make friends with people. However, try as she might she had never found anyone to confide in as she had done with Meg. Unlike Raoul, she genuinely liked living in America and she felt that if it wasn't for Philippe or the lack of jobs, Raoul too would have grown to love it.

Benoit certainly felt at home.

Still, the whole affair with the opera had opened certain doors for her discontented husband and even he was beginning to show signs that he may be able to settle. It was such a shame that she could now not afford for that to happen.

She turned down the next corridor and was surprised to see Antoinette Giry walking towards her from the opposite direction. The older woman smiled warmly and embraced her, kissing both cheeks with affection and softness.

'How are you feeling?' she asked, her usually hard eyes softened at the edges.

Christine placed her hand across her stomach and managed to smile, 'I am nervous,'

Madame Giry smiled. 'You will be wonderful, I am sure of it,'

'I do hope so, Madame,'

The ballet mistress reached across and squeezed her hand, 'We both know you will,'

The knowing look in the older woman's eyes told Christine that Madame Giry was aware of what was going on. 'You know he is here, then?' she asked.

Madame Giry nodded slowly, sage as ever, 'You really had no idea?'

Christine was momentarily offended but shrugged away the feeling, 'How could I?' she asked, 'It all seems so obvious in hindsight but…'

'Hindsight is a wonderful thing,' Madame Giry said kindly. 'Erik is a resourceful man,'

'And you did not know, Madame Giry?' Christine asked. She knew that the two of them had been friends for years, many years before Christine had known either of them. It seemed strange to her that Madame Giry would not know where he was and yet there was a lot that seemed strange to Christine lately. Perhaps this would just be another of those occasions.

'I did not,' she said, almost sadly. 'Like you, I feel as though I should have known but no, he did not tell me, I had not heard from him in years,'

'You've seen him then?' Christine asked.

She nodded.

Christine looked down at her feet as an uncomfortable quiet descended upon them. Finally, Madame Giry said, 'I do not envy your position,'

'I want to sing,' Christine told her, feeling a passion build in her chest that she thought had long left her.

The ballet mistress nodded.

'I have told him that I will,' she explained and then added, 'Until my contract expires,'

Madame Giry's eyes were fixed on her, sparkling and curious, sceptical even in the darkness of the corridor. 'How will you keep this from Raoul?' she asked.

'He doesn't need to know,' Christine said but felt the immediate pang of guilt that she had become accustomed to, over the years. She half expected a lecture from the ballet mistress but instead, she placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. 'If he knows… I… I won't be able to sing,'

'I kept Erik from my husband for my entire marriage,' she said. 'It was not the same, of course, Erik was merely my friend, but… he is not a man who is easy to explain to other men,'

Christine laughed. 'He isn't _even_ my friend,'

Madame Giry's eyebrows arched. 'No, he is not your friend,' she turned but did not elaborate. 'You had better get ready,'

'What is it that you wish to say to me Madame?' Christine asked.

'There is nothing I can say to you, Christine,' Madame Giry said, without turning around. 'These are things that you must work out for yourself,'

Christine did not know quite what to say and so she let her friend simply walk away, leaving her standing alone in the corridor behind the stage. She took a moment to regain her composure, making a pact with herself not to dwell too much on what Madame Giry had said, and then she made her way to her dressing room.

As she approached she wondered at how somehow all dressing rooms looked alike. Yes, there were bigger and smaller ones, there were theatres with many and theatres with only a few… but they were all inherently similar. The style, the look of them and that smell. The smell that surrounded them all, the smell of hunger, of anticipation… the smell of impending failure or unimaginable success.

She smiled to herself.

When she opened the door to her room she was greeted by the beautiful scent and glorious colours of bouquet upon bouquet of spring flowers. She walked to her dressing table where only one sat, it was bright and full of promise, and addressed to her from her adoring husband and son.

Briefly she sank her face into the flowers, letting the aroma and the feel of them fill her senses. When she placed them back down she sighed with a mixture of love and guilt, she knew that she fixed in their emotional cross fires.

It was only when she glanced in the mirror that she realised that she had left the door open in her rush to see the flowers. She went to the door and her breath caught in her throat.

There, in the handle, was a single red rose tied neatly with a silk, black ribbon.

The thorns had been carefully removed so that when she picked it up there was no risk of her pricking her fingers. In spite of herself, she lifted it to her nose and closed her eyes. The petals were soft and smooth, velvet in texture and the colour was blood red, almost too dark to be real.

Although she knew better she stepped into the corridor and looked side to side. Of course, there was no one there and she was greeted with nothing but silence. Once back in the dressing room she closed the door behind her and locked it carefully. She wasn't really sure why she did this, she knew that if he wanted to then he could get in, the lock would not keep him out.

She wondered whether there was a lock in the entire world that could.

Gently, she took the ribbon from the rose and let it fall into the rubbish basket by the side of her seat.

The rose, however, she placed carefully above the mirror.

* * *

Erik had locked the door to box five very carefully behind him and he had one of his men standing outside, just in case. Tonight, he really did not want to be disturbed. The years of longing, the months of planning and the hours of waiting all ended now.

He would hear her sing again.

He sat towards the back so that he could not be seen by prying eyes but the box was invented in such a way that he could see much of the theatre from where he sat. Should anyone look up, he was far enough back to be hidden by the new lighting system. He had made sure of this when they were rigged up, it was something he had thought very carefully about.

Deep down he knew that it was unnecessary for him to hide himself and yet the force of this habit remained so strong that he rarely overcame it. His whole life had been lived in such solitude and rejection, that he still chose to cloak himself in the shadows.

The theatre was humming with a sense of expectation, every ticket sold and seat filled and when the lights dipped and the room fell into silence, Erik waited with patient anticipation for Christine. Although he was eager to see her perform, to hear her sing, he knew that there was no rush now. She would be on the stage soon enough and then he could watch her performance without fear that she was being forced- she had signed the contract before knowing that he was even there. She was not afraid of him and he would never want her to be.

She would sing because it was what she _wanted_.

When she finally made her appearance he leant forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees, chin in his hands and let his eyes soak her in. She had changed very little over the years, her beauty still so dazzling that it was breathtaking and he felt immediately the way he had felt when he had first seen her.

She was older now but no less alluring and as she sang his hand instinctively found the place on his chest over where his heart, cold as it was, began to beat again. He felt the blood begin to flow through him, the heat he had missed so much return to his body, he felt his ears tingle and his lips twitch into an involuntary smile.

Erik watched carefully and quietly, his eyes followed her every movement as she glided across the stage with an untouchable elegance that he had seen in only one other woman in his life. Her voice found the parts of his soul that he had been so sure were dead only months ago, it made his pulse race and his mind alive. What a glorious sound she still had, a near perfection that he had nurtured and loved for nearly as long as he could remember.

When she swept across the front of the stage to bow, when it was finally over, he watched as her eyes looked upwards and found the box in which le Vicomte was situated. Her smile towards him was so warm and full of affection that Erik fell back into his seat, utterly deflated. He feared now that no matter how hard he tried he would never be able to drag her away from that _boy_.

When he had let her go, back in the cellars, when he had left her sleeping that fateful night, he knew that he was doing the right thing for her. With Raoul, her life would be full of the daylight she deserved and the safety she so craved but things had changed. Thinking back, he realised that leaving her without even the briefest of explanations was a mistake. He had admitted to Christine and, in that, even admitted it to himself.

Things were different now.

Despite his mind telling him not to, he risked another look over the edge and found her taking her applause at the front of the stage. He was about to sink back when she looked up, towards his box, and her gaze fixed there for so long that he feared she could actually see him. It was only then that he noticed the wide eyed confusion that he had seen once before on her face... in a basement, after a kiss…

She finally looked away and he shrunk back into the sanctity of the darkness and solitude in his box. Seeing her face, the look of turmoil behind her eyes, he allowed himself to think that perhaps this was not over after all. Perhaps he was not yet defeated.

He waited patiently for the applause to die and for the bustling of the crowds leaving below to slowly quiet and then finally, end. He unlocked the door and dismissed the guard with a wave of his hand. The guard did not look at him, he did not question him, he simply left him alone. Erik locked the door and slipped the long key into his pocket before heading down the corridor towards the hidden exit at the end.

He paused briefly before he slipped into the darkness, debating whether or not he should go to Christine's dressing room. She would undoubtedly still be there. He shook his head, knowing that he would see her soon enough and slid into the secret passage.

Of that night, he chose to remember her voice and the adoration that she had rightly been shown by the audience. He chose to remember her beauty and her strength and _not_ the look of love she had given to her husband.

He chose the look of turmoil, the indecision.

He hated to lose.

He was not defeated.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Wanted to get this up today as A) I got quite a few reviews for the last chapter b) I only posted once last week c) I've just written chapter 30 and d) I don't think I will have time tomorrow.**

**This is unedited since a few days after I originally wrote it so my apologies if there are any glaring errors.**

**Thank you all for the reviews, I am about to start replying to them and have already replied to one or two.**

**Chapter 20**

Christine knew that it wasn't really the most ladylike thing in the world but she reclined onto the sand anyway, propping herself up on her elbows and covering her lower legs with Benoit's blanket. She lowered the rim of her hat slightly, to protect her eyes from the fading sun, and watched Benoit dash in and out of the waves. There was no tutoring that day, in fact, his lessons had been going so well that she worried he might be too advanced for any tutor in New York.

Their time together, like this, had become a little rarer since the opening of the Opera House and so, given the opportunity, she made sure to treasure every second of it. Raoul was out with Philippe somewhere and she hadn't thought to ask where. Over the years she had learnt better. It was not that Raoul would not answer nor that he did not want to tell her, she just found that often she didn't want to know.

When she glanced up, Benoit was running towards her with his arms outstretched and his body dripping with sea water. He leapt towards her, not caring that he was wet, and giggled in her arms. She squeezed him to her, feeling the water soak into her clothes as she did. She kissed the top of his head.

He tasted of salt.

He jumped up and sat down next to her, digging his feet into the sand, as deep as they would go and then wiggling his toes around. 'Did you know that New York was first called New Amsterdam?' Benoit asked, turning his eyes towards her. They were bright and clear, even though he was squinting from the intensity of the sun.

'I didn't,' she said.

He nodded and, without explaining further, bounded back to his feet and ran to build sand castles with other children on the beach. She sighed at the peace of it.

If only all things were as simple as the beach.

When she was young the seaside, with its sandy shores and crashing waves, was always her favourite place to be. Her father would spend his free time alone with her, playing games and building grander and grander castles in the sand. They had very few of what most people would consider holidays but it didn't matter. Wherever there was a beach, she was happy, whether her father was forced to work or not.

Benoit shared her innate love of the beach and she suspected that it was for all the same reasons as she had loved it when she was a child. It represented happy times, it represented holidays and family. It was wonderful.

She stood and walked to him. 'I'm going to make a sandwich, I can see you from the balcony,' she said to him. 'Would you like one?'

He shook his head, completely engrossed in his creation. She glanced down at it and noticed that he was shaping the sand into the pattern of the arches at the theatre. They were almost exactly right. She glanced at him, 'No castles today?' she asked.

He shook his head. 'The sand crumbles too quickly, you can't make anything tall _and_ intricate with it,'

She laughed to herself and ruffled his hair. He looked up and smiled.

'Don't move from here,' she said to him. It was the same thing she said to him every time she left him on the beach. He was old before his time and often insisted that he was perfectly capable of playing on the beach alone. It had been only a few months ago when she had given into his request. Still, she watched him from the balcony, just to be safe.

He nodded dismissively, and she rolled her eyes leaving him to his work. Every so often, as she moved away, she checked over her shoulder but she knew by now that he would be fine. Even bigger, stronger children did not seem to bother him and so she forced herself to stop worrying and went inside.

Once inside she quickly stepped out onto the balcony to check that he was still where he promised to stay. He was, of course, and he was still working his fingers into the sand recreating the arch from the opera house.

With that she wandered inside to make herself a sandwich.

* * *

Dusk was only just beginning as Erik took the opportunity to stroll along the coastline. He didn't do it often but it was something he quite liked. In fact, he might sometimes go as far as to say he actually enjoyed it. It wasn't the sand or the sea that made it such a pleasant walk. To him, being so close to the ocean and hearing the waves represented freedom.

When he had travelled across Europe, all those years ago, the only thing that truly signalled escape to him was the sight of the sea. Its expanse and depth was so unimaginable that to him, it was comforting. He walked on the firm sand near the rocks, he did not really care to get sand in his shoes and so stayed where it did not flick up.

Finally, Christine's home came into view. It was along the shore and set back slightly. He could not see her on the balcony and though he did not walk this way with the purpose of seeing her, he often hoped that he would. She was not there today but he could see some boys playing in the sand.

Seeing them he decided that he would walk no further, instead he turned to face the open expanse of the ocean and took in a lungful of the salty air. Try as he might, thoughts of Christine swirled like water into his mind and he was incapable of stopping them. It had been a little over a month since the opening night and it was clear to him that she was being very careful not to 'bump' into him.

For the first time in their odd relationship, he chose not to force any meetings with her, resisting the urge to appear before her anytime he wanted to. There had been opportunities for him to be alone with her but he had chosen against it and instead had left a rose each evening in her dressing room. In a different place each time, of course, just to keep things interesting.

He had no way of looking into her dressing room. He had not built a mirror nor spy holes, he was enabling her to have the privacy she deserved, something he could never have done a decade ago. It was difficult, of course, and often against his better judgement but Jack was still around and he kept a watchful eye on her.

He didn't _need_ Jack to do this. Should he choose to do it himself he would have no difficulty and the odds of him being caught were slim but with Jack things were easier. Erik had to satisfy himself in getting information second hand but for the time being, he could handle that. In the future, who knew, but at that moment he had come to realise that the harder he pushed Christine the further away she fell.

In spite of himself he turned his head and glanced back to her balcony. She wasn't there, still, and his eyes drifted down to beach beneath her window. He watched as a shaggy, dishevelled looking dog crept onto the beach and began drinking from a rock pool. The poor creature looked half starved. One of the boys saw him and walked in his direction but the dog did not seem to have the energy to move away. The others followed and they surrounded the mutt and began poking at it with sticks.

He wondered where they had discovered this practice and why they felt it necessary to be so cruel. It was rare that he felt any true anger towards children, they were generally the innocents of society, the little human's who learnt by mimicking. Still, seeing them torment the innocent dog riled him and he felt his hands twitch in anger.

With a sigh he began to make his way towards them but stopped when another, smaller boy walked to them.

'Stop that,' he said bravely to the six older boys.

The ringleader turned to him, stared him up and down, and then laughed. 'Mind your business,' he said to the smaller boy and then turned and proceeded to harass the dog with greater enthusiasm.

The small boy frowned, 'Excuse me,'

Again, the ring leader turned to him, along with a couple of the other boys. 'What?' he snapped, sounding older than he actually was. Erik could clearly see that none of them were any older than eleven or twelve years and the other boy was younger still.

'Can't you see he is unwell?' the boy asked without anger.

'Why should that matter?'

'He only wants to drink,' the boy explained.

'This is _my_ beach,' the older boy told him.

'I don't think it is,' the younger boy informed him. The rest of the older set stopped prodding the dog and turned around to support their leader.

To Erik's amazement it seemed that the younger boy had no intention of backing down on his position.

'Who do you think you are?' the ringleader asked.

'The dog has done nothing wrong,' the boy said, standing his ground admirably.

The ringleader stepped forward and grabbed the younger boy by the scruff of the neck but the young boy barely flinched as he stared the leader in the eye. 'I don't wish to cause trouble,'

One of the other boys laughed. 'You hear that accent?'

It was only then that Erik snapped out of his daze and he too noticed the lilt in the boy's accent. He was not American he, in fact, sounded distinctly French.

The ringleader raised his other hand and almost lifted the boy from the floor, 'You already caused trouble,' he said to him. 'Run along and play with your sand…'

'Are you going to let the dog go?' the boy asked with such a fearlessness that Erik was taken aback.

The leader's laugh pierced the still air. 'Why would we do that?' he asked. 'I've had enough of you, we're going to have to sort you out,'

The other boys crowded closer and with horrible clarity Erik not only realised the boy was likely to be beaten senseless but that this boy was Christine's son. He moved forward as the boy kicked out and caught the ringleader firmly in the groin. The grip loosened as he collapsed to the floor, much to the amazement of his comrades.

The shock was not enough to stop them, however, and they descended on the boy quickly. One threw a loose punch which the boy easily sidestepped and then somehow managed to avoid another kick. They had managed to circle him, though, and now he was surrounded.

Still, he showed no fear to them.

One of the bullies tackled him to the floor and another sent a kick to his ribs.

Enough was enough.

Erik stepped into the middle of them and lifted the attacker from the ground and flung him to one side. The next little tyrant he shoved with a firm hand so that he could lift the young de Chagny boy to his feet.

'Mister,' the ringleader said, finally able to stand, 'This is none of your business,'

Of course, they were now standing around him but Erik simply turned to the ringleader and pulled him close. Suddenly, the boy looked horrified.

'Listen to me,' Erik hissed into his ear, he didn't want to threaten the boy directly and so he chose the next best thing. 'I know your parents. If I ever catch you on this beach in the future I will ensure that you never see them again,'

Quivering at the sound of his voice the ringleader struggled from his grasp and ran. As soon as the other bullies realised that they had little or no chance without their leader, they too, began to scatter in their separate directions.

Watching them run away he caught the soft sound of footsteps behind him.

'Oh my God,'

Erik's back stiffened as he heard the sound of Christine's voice getting closer to him.

Suddenly she was lifting her son from the ground and kissing his hair, 'This is why I don't like you to play alone… are you hurt? Did they hurt you?'

The boy struggled and wiped his cheek, 'Mama, I am fine…' he looked embarrassed.

Finally, she placed his feet back on the sand and turned to Erik. 'I won't ask how you came to be here,' she said quietly.

'It is a public beach,' he said, without malice.

She placed her hand on his arm. 'Thank you,' she said and then took her son's hand.

When the boy looked up at him and their eyes met, he felt a jolt of recognition shoot through his body. He swallowed, confused.

'I'm Benoit,' the boy said, offering his hand.

Erik took it gently, noting the long fingers of the boy as his own curled around them, 'A pleasure, Benoit, you are a very courageous boy,'

Benoit's cheeks reddened. 'Thank you,'

Erik turned to leave, his heart pounding in his chest. He did not know what he had seen or what he should do. As he stepped away from them he heard Benoit say, 'Mama, what about the dog?'

'Oh Benoit, we can't keep a dog,'

Benoit was silent for a moment before he said, with a voice full of tears, 'But he will die,'

Erik turned. 'I will take him with me,'

Christine blinked at him but said nothing.

'Will you, sir?'

_Sir_.

He swallowed. 'Of course,'

'Oh thank you,' he sounded relieved.

'What shall I call him?' Erik asked before his brain could stop him.

Benoit looked up at him thoughtfully before saying, 'Banquo,'

Erik blinked, 'Banquo?'

He nodded.

'From Macbeth?'

Again, the boy nodded. Surprised, Erik found it within himself to glance up at Christine but as soon as their eyes met she looked away, refusing to hold his gaze.

'Then Banquo it is,' he said, scooping the unkempt creature into his arms and as he left them there on the beach he knew that something was seriously amiss.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: This might be the last update for a couple of weeks as I will be away. I will try and get another up before the end of the week but can't guarantee it. **

**Thank you for the great reviews, though, and I will try to reply to them all but it might not be for the next couple of weeks!**

**Chapter 21**

Jack hadn't seen Schwarz for over a week and when he entered the house through the usual rear door he was surprised to be accosted by a black dog that snarled and barked at him until he backed against the wall. Pinned there with a fear he had never felt before he shouted, 'Mr Schwarz!'

'No need to shout, Jack,' he heard as the boss seemed to appear from nowhere at his side. 'Come now Banquo,' he said, and patted his leg. The dog immediately stopped barked and obediently scrambled to be at Schwarz's side.

Then, with gentleness that Jack had no idea Erik Schwarz possessed, he reached down and softly stroked the fur on the back of the dog's neck.

Jack's heart rate slowly settled and he asked, 'How long have you had the dog?'

Schwarz glanced down at the black animal and then back at Jack, 'A little under a week,'

Jack was amazed not only by the fact that Erik Schwarz had a pet at all but also that the dog seemed so utterly submissive to him after little more than a few days. Not that Jack didn't understand the natural instinct to become subservient to Erik, he suffered with it himself, but the dog was not only compliant he seemed to do it adoringly.

The dog was staring up at his master as though he were the only person on earth.

'I'm sorry if he startled you,' Schwarz said with the faintest hint of a smile. It did not surprise Jack for one second that Schwarz got some enjoyment out of Jack's obvious discomfort. 'You don't like dogs?'

One look in the boss' eyes suggested that any answer not to his satisfaction could result in something pretty unpleasant. 'I do,' Jack said, probably too quickly. 'I was just… _surprised_,'

If Jack had not known better he would have said that Schwarz looked amused as he turned and led the dog through the living room to the study. Jack stood stock still, too nervous to take a step forward.

'I'm sure he won't hurt you,' Schwarz said over his shoulder.

Jack slowly began to follow, not entirely convinced after seeing the sharpness of the dog's teeth earlier. The dog stuck closely to Schwarz's side looking remarkably like the man's shadow.

'Sit,' Schwarz said and for a moment Jack stared at him in confusion, not knowing which of them he was talking to. Jack or the dog.

In the end, Jack took a seat as far away from the dog as he could physically get and turned to Schwarz.

Schwarz glanced over at him, 'You look nervous, Jack,'

Jack swallowed. 'I've had some bad experiences with dogs… in the past…'

The boss nodded his head. 'Animals are extraordinary,' he said. 'They know when you're afraid of them, they instinctively know when you are a threat and yet they are not malicious,'

'A bit like you,' Jack said, without thinking.

Erik Schwarz stared at him for a long, cold moment , his eyes almost black behind the mask and then, suddenly, he began to laugh. It wasn't a laugh that Jack had ever heard from him before, it wasn't dark and it wasn't a chuckle it was a laugh, full and earnest. Not only that but it strangely sounded like music, it had almost a melody, a sweetness to it.

'Yes,' he said, patting the dog's head. 'A bit like me,'

Jack managed a smile, finding the whole thing just a little bit strange.

'And perhaps, a bit like you?' Schwarz asked him, all laughter gone now, eyes focused on him.

'I wouldn't go as far…'

'Perhaps,' Schwarz said and unconsciously Jack knew that the conversation was over. He watched as the dog lay down at his master's feet, making sure that his nose rested on Schwarz's foot as though he could not bear to be apart from him.

Schwarz sighed, 'What is the situation with the de Changy's?'

Jack shrugged. 'Christine is acting quite normally around me when Raoul is there but when he is not, she is frosty,'

Jack was almost positive that he saw Schwarz smile but he could and would never swear to it in a court of law.

'Continue,' Schwarz said when Jack fell silent.

'She is angry,'

'Clearly,'

'And she no longer confides in me,' Jack said.

'Did you think that she would?' Schwarz asked.

Jack stared at him, confused. 'If she no longer confides in me then what point is there in continuing to follow her?'

Schwarz's eyes glimmered in the low light. 'Because I have instructed you to,'

Jack felt his throat constrict, 'I'm sorry, Mr Schwarz,' he said. 'I just… you always have a reason,'

'And what makes you think that I don't have a reason this time?'

Jack said nothing.

After a long and painful bout of silence Schwarz asked, 'Are you happy Jack?'

Taken aback not only by the content of the question but also by the softness in which it was asked, Jack momentarily lost his voice. 'I…'

'It's a simple question,'

'I think I am, yes,'

Schwarz studied him in silence and the feeling of his eyes made Jack feel uneasy and bordering on panic stricken. It wasn't healthy to fear your boss, Jack knew that, but it also didn't seem entirely logical. Schwarz had, in fact, always been civil with Jack. He had never hurt him, he rarely raised his voice and as far as Jack could remember, he had never threatened him. Although Jack had seen him _do_ things none of them were directed at him.

'Happiness is a strange thing,' Schwarz said. 'I have felt it once or twice myself.'

Jack nodded.

'I have also seen it,' he continued. 'In other people,'

Again, Jack nodded his head.

'I don't see happiness in you,'

Unsure Jack simply said, 'I don't feel _unhappy_,'

'Ah, but therein lies the problem,' Schwarz said. 'Just because you are not unhappy does not mean that you are happy,'

Jack blinked. 'I'm not sure…'

'Do you enjoy your job?' Schwarz asked.

Now Jack was torn between complete honesty or lying. He stared at Schwarz's face, part covered by the bright mask, and knew that if he lied then Schwarz would probably know it.

'Mostly,' Jack finally replied and he had to force himself not to fidget in his seat like a chastised child.

'It is not always an enjoyable job,' Schwarz said and Jack inwardly sighed his relief. 'What would make you happy?'

'I…' Jack frowned. He was confused by the conversation, both tone and subject , and he had no idea how to continue. 'I don't know,'

Schwarz actually smiled. 'Most men would say money,'

'I have money,'

The boss shrugged. 'I know but you are not rich. Most men want to be rich,'

Jack stared at him. 'You are rich, are you happy?'

For a moment Jack had the horrible feeling that this wasn't really a two way conversation. Schwarz had fallen silent but his eyes remained fixed on Jack and Jack was suddenly terrified that he had made a horrible error in judgement.

'I am not happy,' Schwarz answer to Jack's amazement. 'I have been happy only twice in my life, can you believe that?'

Jack shook his head, unable to speak. He didn't really know what was happening, but he recognised it as a conversation two friends might have.

'When?' Jack asked, knowing that he was probably pushing his luck, luck that had so far not failed him. There was, of course, a first time for everything.

Schwarz was clearly a man who did not express his feelings often and rarely allowed anyone any insight into his past. The look of ragged indecision past across his face and on others, Jack had seen it many times before, but on Schwarz he had not.

'Once when I was a teenager,'

Jack found it hard to imagine Erik Schwarz as a teenager.

'But it did not last for long,'

Jack was not surprised that no real explanation came and so he remained quiet, to see if Schwarz would confide anything further. It was a strange sensation but Jack found that he wanted to hear Schwarz say more, he wanted to learn, in fact, if he was pushed he might say that he wanted to be his friend.

'And once, ten years ago,' Schwarz looked up. 'And that did not even last as long as the first,'

Jack nodded. 'Christine?'

Schwarz nodded. 'Perhaps you have known that happiness?'

Feeling his vision blur slightly, Jack blinked and turned his face away. 'Once,'

Schwarz said nothing and when Jack twisted to look at him again, his face was impassive and serious. The softness had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. Finally Schwarz said, 'Tell me about Raoul,'

'He is being the doting husband,' Jack answered, regaining his composure.

Schwarz scoffed. 'As if he would be anything but,'

'But he spends less time with Christine now,' Jack said. 'She spends much of her time at the theatre, Raoul is torn in the other direction with Philippe,'

Schwarz smiled. 'Who is still drinking?'

Jack smiled back. 'Of course,'

'Good,'

'Christine and Philippe can now no longer be in the same room together,' Jack explained. 'Or even the same building… Raoul is forced to see him elsewhere,'

'Does she spend much time alone in the house?' Schwarz asked.

'Sometimes,' Jack replied. 'But she is mostly at the theatre,'

'Does she say much about him to you?'

Jack shook his head. 'She barely says anything to me,'

'She is stubborn,' Schwarz said.

Jack simply nodded, afraid to agree or disagree.

'What about the boy?' Schwarz asked, much to Jack's surprise. This was the first time that young Benoit had even been mentioned in their briefings.

'He is fine,'

'Is he close to Raoul?'

'Somewhat, yes,' Jack answered, once again confused by the line of questioning.

'Tell me,' Schwarz said. 'Does the boy share his mother's love of music or is he in Raoul's image?'

Jack shook his head, 'Benoit goes to the theatre with Christine, he likes music,'

'Yes but does he sing? Does he play?' Schwarz asked with such urgency that it almost startled Jack.

'He plays,'

'What?'

Jack laughed. 'Everything, I think,'

Schwarz was beginning to look frustrated and so Jack added, 'Violin, piano, cello…'

'He reads music?' Schwarz asked.

Jack nodded. 'He's been known to write it, I believe,'

'Write it…' Schwarz said to no one but himself. 'How old is he?'

'Nine, I think,'

'Does he resemble Raoul?'

As bizarre as the questions seemed, Jack knew that Erik Schwarz did not ask questions without a purpose. Although he felt confused the look on Schwarz's face suggested that he was best not questioning what he was hearing. He knew from the flecks of gold and silver in the Boss' eyes that Jack should simply answer the questions as best he could.

He said, 'No, not really,' and then added. 'To be honest, he doesn't look like either of them. Has Christine's high cheeks though, I think,'

Schwarz was quiet for a moment before he asked, 'Does he do anything else?'

'What do you mean?' Jack asked.

'How does he play? What does he do?'

'He likes to read,'

Schwarz nodded his head but said nothing.

'He likes to play on the beach,' Jack said. 'Builds things in the sand,'

Schwarz looked up, 'What things?'

Jack shrugged, 'He copies statues and carvings… things like that,'

Again, Schwarz fell into silence. This time he did not break it. He sat, staring at the fireplace, his eyes alive but he was quiet, no longer wishing to voice his thoughts. The dog lay almost motionless at his feet, the only movement between them the rise and fall of their breathing.

Jack stood. 'Is that all?' he asked. Knowing it was and wondering what had suddenly changed.

Schwarz glanced at him and nodded his head, words had clearly dried up. Bemused and amazed Jack walked away from the living room. Neither master nor dog flinched and Jack was left to wonder what he had just witnessed.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Great reviews! Don't have time to reply to everyone as am off on holiday very soon indeed. Going to see Love Never Dies next Friday night and will let you all know my verdicts. Verdicts on this chapter very much appreciated.**

**Oh, no chance to give this a run through so apologies for errors. No update next week!**

**Chapter 22**

One of the few good things about the situation she found herself in was the fact that she had access to the opera house any time she wanted. That morning she had risen early with Benoit and taken breakfast in his company on the balcony, then, suitably well fed, they left Raoul to wait for Philippe and made their way to the theatre.

It was eerie in its silence as they first walked in and the deep thud of the door behind her sent penetrating echoes around the room. She was not used to seeing a place like this so quiet but it gave her a chance to be alone with Benoit and let him experience the stage in a whole different way. Benoit rarely questioned anything his parents told him, not out loud anyway, but that morning when they entered the opera house he had looked up at her and asked, 'Why doesn't papa come with us?'

Christine had to smile at him. It was at times like these that she remembered that he was only a child. It was hard to think of him as such sometimes, he behaved very much like a miniature adult and their conversations often made her uncomfortable because she wondered if a boy should be thinking about such grown-up things.

They talked about their move to America and he would wonder what had prompted it and why it had taken so long for them to find work. They talked about Raoul and Benoit would often express concerns for his father's health, telling her that he looked pale. They talked about Philippe and though she hated to admit it, his insight was sometimes over and above even her own.

Today though, looking at her with ice pool eyes and pale cheeks, with his black hair flopped forward over his eyebrows, he was just her son. Just a child. She loved him always but _especially_ like this.

'Papa is busy with Uncle Philippe,' she answered honestly. 'Besides, this is _our_ time,'

She rested her arm over his narrow shoulders and he grasped her hand as they walked into the stage area. 'I like it here,' he said, out of the blue, his eyes gazing out over the seats of the theatre.

'I do too,' she admitted.

Benoit grinned his famous grin, with the warmth and the enthusiasm of all boys at nine years old. 'Papa doesn't know what he is missing,'

She smiled back at him. 'No, he doesn't,'

Benoit looked up at her. 'Let's not tell him,'

'Why not?' Christine asked, a little surprised.

Benoit shrugged his bony shoulders. 'It's nice to spend time with you,'

'It's nice to spend time with your father,' Christine said lightly.

Benoit nodded. 'Oh I know, mama, but…'

She glanced at him as he fell into silence. 'But?' she asked, placing her hand gently onto his arm.

'You work a lot now,' he said quietly.

She felt a pang of guilt deep in her heart, 'I'm sorry, Benoit,'

He turned his face away. 'It's fine. I understand,'

Worryingly, she thought that he just might.

'Why don't you play for me?' she asked. 'Like you used to,'

Benoit's smile returned and he fled to the steps, bounding down them and throwing himself into the orchestra pit. He looked up at her and said, 'Are you going to stay up there?'

She shook her head and held back a laugh. 'I will sit in my favourite seat, where I can see and listen,'

He looked pleased with her answer and played a cheerful melody to match her footfalls as she walked down the stairs and made her way to the centre seat in the second row. When she was comfortable he nodded at her and cracked his little knuckles, a habit that, despite her best efforts, he could not stop. She cringed at the sound but did not show it and when he began to play she eased herself back into her seat and smiled.

When they were home he tended to choose to play the violin in the family room and although she enjoyed it she did love to hear him play the piano. Part of her was always slightly melancholy when he played the violin- he reminded her so much of her father. She was sure he was equally gifted with the instrument and although it brought back pleasant memories they saddened her all the same.

As Benoit finished the first piece he stood and gave her a dramatic bow to which she applauded and, because there was no one else around, she whistled too. He giggled and sat back down again, playing a more dramatic piece which filled the entire room with deep, dark sounds. The music was so fierce that it made her shiver and yet he played it so beautifully it was hard to dislike it. She closed her eyes and let herself listen.

She drifted into the world and sounds of music until a loud clapping began at the back of the room.

'Bravissimo,'

Her eyes flew open as she turned quickly. Erik was walking slowly down the aisle towards them, his applause matched his stride and she suddenly realised that Benoit had stopped playing. She turned to face him, expecting what, she did not know, but whatever it was she didn't find it. Instead Benoit was looking over at Erik, his face a normal colour, his eyes their usual shade. He did not look afraid nor did he look nervous.

Erik walked past the second row and down into the orchestra pit. 'Hello Benoit,' he said.

Her son smiled. 'Hello monsieur,' Benoit said. 'I can call you that, can't I? Your accent…'

Erik nodded his head. 'You play very well,'

Christine swallowed the lump in her throat that had developed along with the softness of his voice.

'Thank you,' Benoit said with such a grateful earnest that it made her heart stop in her chest. She suddenly found that she could not speak, she could not move, she was powerless as Erik stood over her tiny son, his shadow casting blackness across him.

Benoit's eyes lifted. 'What are you doing here?' he asked.

'I own this place,' Erik answered with uncharacteristic openness. Christine wondered at the changes in him.

'You do?' Benoit asked, with both excitement and surprise tangled in his tone.

'I do,'

'Mama!' Benoit shouted to her, his eyes wide and alive. 'This is Monsieur Schwarz!'

Christine forced on a smile and finally found her voice, 'Yes, we've met before,'

Benoit did not let his confusion dampen his enthusiasm as he turned back to Erik and said, 'How is Banquo?'

'Banquo is doing very well, Benoit,' Erik replied, his voice soft and even. 'I shall tell him that you asked,'

Benoit's smile was so bright when he looked at Erik that Christine felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach. Erik's mildness was not only surprising it was almost touching and perhaps just a little frightening. Finally, she found the strength to stand and, on slightly shaking legs, she made her way from her seat and to the front. She was careful not to brush too close to Erik as she shuffled around to her son.

Erik eye's turned to her only briefly before they met Benoit's again. 'How long did it take you to learn to play that way?' he asked.

Proud, Benoit replied, 'Oh not long at all,'

Erik glanced at Christine but said nothing to her, instead his focus was once again her son. 'Do you enjoy it?'

'It's my favourite thing in the world,' Benoit said and then, with a blush, added, 'Well, except for spending time with mama,'

'A boy after my own heart,' Erik said lightly but there was something in his tone, something ominous, something that made Christine's heart freeze.

Erik dug his hand into his pocket and found a small key. He held it out, 'Why don't you go to the prop closet, see if there is anything you might like to keep,'

Benoit's face lit up as his eyes widened. 'Really?'

Erik nodded.

Benoit turned to Christine, 'Can I, mama?'

She swallowed, 'Of course,'

He took the key from Erik's hand and darted away from them. Erik and Christine stood in silence and she could feel the heavy beat of her heart as she waited for something, _anything_, to happen. There was a gap between them now, where Benoit had been, and suddenly it did not seem very far at all. When the sound of Benoit's footsteps had faded Erik finally turned to look at her, his blue eyes focused and intense on hers.

'He is quite a child,' Erik said, his voice was low and steady.

Christine's throat felt suddenly constricted and she moved around the piano instinctively so that it now stood between them. 'I didn't really thank you for helping him the other day,'

'And that is what you would like to talk to me about now?' he asked, gaze unwavering.

Somehow she nodded.

His shoulders moved in an elegant shrug. 'Very well,'

Christine did not really know what was happening or what to say. Did she want to talk to him about this? She suspected not but her head was a mess and her stomach tied in knots and truly, she did not know what to do.

'Well, he is a gentle boy,' she said, placing her hand over her stomach in an effort to steady her breathing. 'He would have…'

'He has many facets,' Erik said simply.

Christine felt unreasonably angry at the comment, she didn't know why it had stung her, but she said, 'He is normal, he is only a child,'

If Erik was surprised by her outburst he did not show it. He did not speak, instead he let his eyes linger on her face until she was hot under his intense gaze.

'He is a good boy,'

'I don't doubt it,'

'He is honest,'

'I didn't question his honesty, Christine,'

And there it was_. Her name._ Spoken softly, spoken beautifully, spoken by a man she never dreamed she would see again, a man she had somehow banished from her thoughts.

'No,' she said quietly.

He was quiet for a moment, so quiet that she allowed herself to look at him. She allowed herself to notice the sincerity in his eyes, to notice the angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. They stood there long enough for her to see the broadness of his shoulders, the thickness of his arms…

'Did you forget me?' he said, breaking the silence with a gentle, angst ridden question. He did not attempt to keep the hurt from his tone, he did not hide it from her.

She turned her face away.

'You look at me as though you do not know me,' he said. 'Did you forget me?'

She could hear her pulse racing in her ears, 'Of course not,'

He stepped to the side of the piano, closing the space between them. His head tilted to the side, 'There was a night all those years ago,' he said.

He didn't need to say anymore. 'Erik…'

'Is he mine?' There was no anger in his voice, none of the fury that she might have expected with such a question, with such a man, there was only pain.

She turned to face him again, she didn't know what to say to him, she didn't know how to answer. It was a question she had lived with all of Benoit's life, a guilt she had hoped to take to her grave. Now, faced with it, all she could say was, 'I don't know,'

'He is not like you,'

She shook her head.

'Nor Raoul,'

It was strange to hear him say her husband's name so casually but she shook the feeling away. 'He is like my father,'

Erik nodded. 'He is somewhat like your father,'

She could not be sure, it was a feeling that had tortured her since the moment she had known of her pregnancy, but deep down, if she was honest, she knew.

'He is a lot like me,' Erik said, voicing both of their thoughts. His own thoughts from just recently and hers from years of self torment.

She swallowed.

'Our eyes…'

He did not finish the thought, he let it hang between them. Benoit's eyes were Erik's eyes, she had always known it and she had always pushed the knowledge away… deep and far away, where her mind could not reach it easily.

The silence was back and they both stood there. She had expected these moments to be different and perhaps it would have been had Erik not see Benoit. It was too late now, though, the seed was sown.

'He is perfect,' Erik said softly.

'Yes,' she said, her voice strained. 'Yes, he is,'

'He has your cheeks,' Erik said.

She nodded and took a deep breath, 'What will you do, Erik?'

He stared at her.

'You won't…' she touched her chest without thinking. 'You won't take him, will you?'

'That would hurt you,' he said simply.

She nodded at him. 'It would hurt very much,'

'Then I will never do that,' he said, as if it was the most common thing in the world. As if every person had had this conversation at one point or another in their lives.

'What happens now?' she asked.

'He is my son,'

She nodded, past denying what they both knew.

'But he doesn't know,'

'No,'

Erik stared at her for a moment longer and then turned his back and walked away. As he got to the middle row she said, 'I don't regret it,'

He stopped walking but did not turn around.

'That night,' she clarified. 'I don't regret it. I never have and I never will,'

When he walked away this time, she did not call after him.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Well, I saw LND on Friday night and must admit that I very much enjoyed it. I still can't quite get to grips with the plot line but the music, the atmosphere, the effects and, in particular, the performances were all magical. **

**Michael Crawford will always be my Phantom but Ramin is certainly not a bad second. What a voice that man has. Also, the music on the CD does not do justice to the musical at all. There is far more put into it when it is acted out. The Phantom IS menacing at times – in particular with Gustav when he first meets him. **

**I hear it is not going to Broadway until next year now due to ALW illness and so has been extended in London. My husband and I will be going to see it in November (I went with my mum this weekend) as he really wants to see it. **

**To say I don't mind seeing it again should tell you something...**

**Anyway, I will reply to reviews as soon as I get chance. The ones for the last chapter were fantastic and now I only worry that I might let you all down...**

**Chapter 23**

The opera had played to another full house and Christine knew that this should please her, yet she seemed incapable of focusing on anything except for Erik. He had told her that he had no intention of taking her son from her, and she believed him, but he had not looked pleased. For the first time ever he had turned his back on her and walked away and even when she spoke, even when she almost called him back, he did not turn to her.

She had built a life for herself with a wonderful husband and a career that she was proud of. She had a son she adored, a home she liked and yet all thoughts were on _him_. The cab ride back home was rocky and lonely, she had refused Jack's company and was travelling alone, but the swaying of the carriage seemed to be shaking her thoughts loose. When she finally arrived home her mind was a jumble of the past and present, she dared not think about the future anymore. She truly had no idea what it held for her.

They had been part of the theatre for months now and her anger at Erik's manipulation had lessened but not to the extent where she was prepared to forgive him. He had told her his intentions on the balcony that night and yet he did not seem to be following up on his wishes. He did not follow her, he did not wait for her and he rarely appeared out of the blue. This was worrying and she found herself constantly wondering what act he had up his sleeve, what his plot was, how he intended for all of this to play out.

She placed her slip over the coat hook as she walked through the hall and was not surprised to see that Raoul had waited up for her. He smiled when she entered the living room and though she returned it, she did not feel like smiling at all.

'How was the show?' he asked, his voice sluggish with drowsiness.

'It went well,' she replied.

He nodded. 'I'm glad,'

Raoul had been spending more and more time with his brother and for once, Christine did not think that Jack had anything to do with it. She rarely saw him and although she knew that it was partly her fault she was not entirely to blame.

'I have missed you today,' she said and of course, she meant it.

His smile faded and he sighed. 'I'm sorry,'

She walked to the cabinet and poured herself a very small sherry. 'Would you like one?' she asked. She was not one to partake in alcohol but the occasional sherry did ease her mind a little.

He raised his hand and shook his head.

When she turned to him she said, 'How was Philippe?'

'He is doing a little better, actually,' Raoul answered and she could not help but notice the pride in his eyes. 'Not drinking so much, staying in more,'

'With you,'

He frowned. 'Yes, sometimes,'

When she said nothing further Raoul asked, 'Are you angry with me?'

'No,' she replied. 'Of course not, it would just be nice to spend some time with you,'

'You are working a lot,' he said defensively.

Christine sighed. 'My work is important,'

'As is my brother, Christine,' Raoul said.

She swallowed, 'More important than our marriage?'

The lines of his face hardened, 'Is your singing more important than our marriage?'

She caught the tinge of hurt in his voice and felt an immediate stab of guilt. She did not want to argue with him but she was seeing so little of him that she wondered if they would ever feel normal again.

'No,' she replied and momentarily wondered if it was the truth. 'But we were broke,'

Raoul said nothing, his face still set like stone with the same grey pallor.

'Because of Philippe,'

'It wasn't all his fault,' Raoul said, he was calm but she could see the anger behind his eyes. It was so rare that it happened that she could spot it every time, it changed the whole structure of his face, the whole colour of his eyes.

'Then whose fault is this?' she asked but she felt no anger, only despair that no matter what her brother in law did, her husband would defend him.

Raoul stood and walked to the door. 'I don't want to argue with you,'

'We're not arguing,' she said to him.

He turned to her, his face dark in the shadow of the cabinet. 'Then what is this?' he asked reasonably.

'I just miss you,'

He sighed. 'And I miss you,'

'The theatre is work, Raoul,' she said to him, hoping he could see what she meant, praying that he understood. 'Philippe…'

'If I don't spend time with him he will simply spend more money,'

'Yes but we have our own means now,' she said. 'We have our own share and we have my wage,'

At this his shoulders slumped. 'You can't keep me,'

'Why on earth not?' she asked.

'You're… it's...'

'I'm a woman,' Christine said, disappointed in him.

'No, you're my wife,' he said. 'This isn't the way it's supposed to be,'

'But if I can take care of us, why not?'

'Because I should take care of us,' he said. 'That is my job, that is _my_ responsibility,'

'It doesn't have to be,'

'I'm going to bed,' he said.

She did not stop him.

* * *

It was a peculiar sensation knowing that Erik was there and yet not being able to see him. Somehow, she always knew when he was around and it was not the first time she had arrived home to discover that her house was not completely empty. Antoinette glanced around her, feeling a little dizzy from such a long day, and when she could not see him she simply made her way to the kitchen.

Finally, she heard a rustle behind her and when she turned he was sitting on the counter top looking at her from under his hat.

'You could knock,' she said to him.

'You weren't home,' he said simply.

'You could have waited,'

'I did wait,' he said, and she saw the ghost of a smile cross his lips.

'I meant outside,' she smiled back.

He shrugged his shoulders and said no more.

'Are you hungry?' she asked as she began to butter a slice of bread.

He frowned at her. 'No,'

'It wasn't such a silly question,' she said as she placed a slice of meat onto the bread and folded it over. 'You seem to be eating these days,'

'Are you calling me fat again?' he asked, his tone light and mocking, then added. 'A man could develop paranoia about these things,'

She stood by his side and nudged his leg with her arm. It was only then that she turned to face him and noticed that his eyes were a little murkier than usual, his face more lined, his expression darker.

'What ails you?' she asked as she prompted him to follow her to the living room where she could at least sit in comfort. Her hip was feeling very sore from such a torturous day.

When they sat down she asked him the same question, knowing that he was likely to avoid it if she did not.

'Nothing,' he said. 'Can't I just visit?'

She smiled at him. 'You can visit anytime,'

His eyes stayed on her.

'But you don't and there is something different today,' she added.

Finally he said, 'It is Christine,'

She laughed inwardly. 'When has it ever been anything else?'

He did not smile.

'What is it?' she asked, placing her small sandwich back onto the plate. 'What has happened? Are things not going according to plan?'

He turned away from her so that she could no longer see the honesty that was always present in his eyes. It was the one part of him that he could not hide behind the ghastly mask and they always showed his inner self.

She knew that he hated it.

'You could say that,' he said.

She did not say anything to him. What could she say? As his friend she had warned him that things could not turn out well. He was the most intelligent person she knew and yet when it came to Christine he became like a lost child.

'Do you know the boy?' Erik asked out of nowhere.

Confused, she asked, 'Benoit?'

Erik nodded.

'Yes, I do,'

'What do you think of him?'

'In what way?' she asked.

This time he turned back to look at her. 'Exactly what I say,'

'He is a good boy, clever, musical, kind…'

Erik nodded again. She wasn't sure why this conversation had taken her by surprise, she knew that it would have to come at some point.

'He reminds me a lot of his father,' Antoinette said.

Erik's eyes narrowed. 'He is nothing like Raoul,'

'That isn't who I meant,'

The room fell into a quiet haze with only the clicking of the mantel clock for accompanying sound. Erik sat stock still, his shoulders taut and his face impassive, while she simply stared at him, _waiting_.

'So you know,'

She nodded.

'Who told you?' he asked.

This time she laughed out loud. 'No one told me,'

'It isn't quite that obvious,' Erik said.

'It wasn't when he was younger,' Antoinette said. 'But when I saw him after arriving in New York, I knew,'

The clock crunched as the hand touched midnight.

'You saw it immediately too, did you not?' she asked.

He nodded.

'He really is quite remarkable,'

Again a nod.

'Does this change anything?' she asked.

'It changes everything and yet somehow it changes nothing,' he replied cryptically but, oddly, she thought that she understood.

'You still love Christine,'

His head snapped up. 'Of course,'

'And you were prepared to win her back by any means necessary,'

His eyes fixed onto hers. 'Yes,'

'And this is still the case,' Antoinette continued. 'But you do not want to hurt Benoit,'

'I would never hurt a child,'

She knew that this was true. 'I know that, Erik,'

His jaw muscle bunched.

'What I mean…' she explained. 'Is that now you don't want him caught up in this, you don't want to see him hurt or abandoned,'

Erik closed his eyes and sat there, completely still and completely silent. Antoinette worried for a moment that he might never speak to her again but then his eyes opened and they were the bluest she thought she had ever seen them.

'He is my son,'

Antoinette nodded.

'My flesh and blood,'

She did not say anything, the look on his face, the pain in his eyes, told her almost everything.

'I have not seen him grow,' Erik said. 'I have spent no time with him and yet I…'

'And yet you love him,' she added, filling in the empty space with what was undeniable.

Abruptly Erik stood and paced to the door.

'Don't blame Christine for this,' Antoinette said to him. 'She could not contact you,'

His hand found the door handle but he paused and turned to her. 'You don't look well,'

'I'm fine,'

'Don't lie to me,'

She wasn't sure why she even tried anymore. 'I'm tired,' she said. 'And a little dizzy, it's been a long day,'

'Take tomorrow off,' he said.

She laughed. 'I can't do that, the dancers…'

'Will be fine without you, I will see to it that they are properly supervised,' Erik said, his voice firm and unyielding. The look on his face told her that he was not going to change his mind about this.

She nodded. 'Alright,'

'You are working too much,'

'Really Erik,' she said softly.

'I will check on you tomorrow,'

'You will do no such thing!' she said. 'I am quite capable of looking after myself,'

This time, he smiled at her. 'I think I will check anyway,'

She smiled back but before she could tell him _no_ the door was closing behind him.

* * *

**A/N: If anyone wants a chat about LND feel free to PM me... I've got loads to say on it!**


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: I've just realised that I have more reviews for this than I did for Aftermath and have written 10 chapters less! **

**It is the most reviews I have ever averaged and I just wanted to thank everyone who has taken the time to write one. Although I do not write for them, they are also more appreciated that you can **_**ever**_** know.**

**Also, I'm not sure how many of you will believe this given my love for writing, but I am actually a numbers person and so have looked at my story traffic. This story has never had less than 250 visitors per chapter (to some not huge, for me, a big thing).**

**I appreciate that these can be the same person going onto a chapter on separate days but... I have around 8/9 regular reviewers (Each person would have to go to each chapter on separate days over 25 times each to add up to the number of visitors I am getting)... which means that a lot of people are just reading too! Therefore:**

**To my other readers, I know you are there and thank you for taking the time, I hope you are enjoying the journey so far. **

**Anyway... not a terribly well written chapter I am afraid...**

**Chapter 24**

Erik had done as he had said and visited Antoinette the following day to check on her. It wasn't that he didn't trust her, far from it, but he knew how dedicated she was and how difficult she was likely to find staying away from the theatre. She looked drained and pale but insisted that she was feeling quite well and could not understand his insistence that she stayed home.

'Really, Erik,'

'You're unwell,'

'I am absolutely fine,'

'You have a slight temperature,'

'I have nothing of the sort,'

'Must you always argue with me, woman?' he said to her. She placed her hand over his and smiled at him.

'You worry too much about me,' she said to him.

He worried about barely anyone else. It was true that she occupied his mind but she was his friend, one of so few that he felt an unwavering urge to protect her. She was hardly a wilting flower and was often resistant to his help, but he could be equally importunate and knew, from recent experience, that everyone needed someone, _sometimes_.

'How many times have you worked day and night?' she asked him, to try to prove her point. He could not argue with her logic, of course, but she was older than he was and in the past, had been prone to bouts of illness.

She opened her mouth to say more but winced instead.

'Where is the pain?' he asked her, watching the tic of the muscles in her face as she grasped her head.

For a moment he thought she might actually insist on denying its existence but she simply sighed and said, 'At the back of my head,'

He stared at her for a moment before asking, 'How long have you been feeling like this?'

'Not long,' she said, avoiding any real answer.

He lifted his eyebrows.

'Perhaps a month,'

'A month,' he said.

She managed to nod her head.

'Is it constant?' he asked.

She turned away. 'It isn't always so painful but I always seem to have a dull ache,'

He felt a pang in his chest, a rare sensation that he had come to learn was a warning. 'Do you have any other symptoms?' he asked.

In his head he was wishing that she might say no, that she was simply drained, _exhausted_, but deep down he was slowly realising that this was not the case.

'Not really,'

Their eyes met and he asked, 'What are they?'

She let out a small laugh. 'If you already know the answer why do you ask the question?'

He tried to smile back but found that he could not, that his mouth refused to rise into the shape, that his heart simply could not make his lips move.

She sighed. 'Sometimes my vision is a little blurred,'

Erik gritted his teeth together and swallowed hard.

'I will be fine in a few days,' she said. 'You're probably right… that I need to rest. I've been working too much,'

He nodded although they both knew that this wasn't true. They both knew that it was worse than that; Erik from his scholarship and Antoinette from just _knowing_. Erik honestly believed that if you were dying then deep down you would know it. He had seen animals take themselves off to a quiet, solitary place and lie down, and never return.

It was nature to know.

'I have a tonic,' he said to her, his heart feeling perhaps the heaviest it had ever been. Not torn nor broken, simply heavy, like lead, in his chest, 'I will get it for you,'

'Thank you,' she said.

He stood up, his legs not feeling quite right. When he found the handle of the door he turned to look at her. 'The tonic…'

'Won't cure me,' she said, as their eyes met across the room. 'I know,'

'It will take the pain away,' he explained. 'Most of it,'

'Will I be able to go back to the theatre?' she asked. 'While I am using your tonic,'

He nodded. 'For a while,'

He did not question her, he did not ask if she was sure and he did not insist she stayed in bed. It seemed utterly pointless to make such assertions to her. She would, and _should_, do exactly as she wished. He found that he could no longer look at her whilst she feeling so weak.

He did not say goodbye when he left.

At the house Banquo greeted him by circling his legs, as a cat might, and then waiting patiently until Erik patted his head. Banquo sensed, as all animals could, that something was not right. Erik could tell by the way his tail stopped wagging and his ears fell back. He followed Erik through the home without whimpering and Erik quietly worked at the tonic, for his friend, until he had enough liquid to fill a bottle.

When he had secured the stopper into the top he sat in the dark and let his thoughts drift. No matter how meticulously he had planned this out, things would always add themselves as variables. Over the years he had come to realise that he could not control everything, try though he might. With Christine back in his life, things felt different but the introduction of the boy had certainly made things awkward.

And now there was Antoinette.

When Jack arrived he was still sitting in the dark, lost in his thoughts. 'Mr Schwarz,'

'Erik,' he said, his voice gruff and foreign to him.

'Pardon?' Jack asked.

'I want you to call me Erik,' he said. Since he had known Jack the other man had referred to him by his adopted surname. It seemed silly that after so many years his employee, who knew so many of his secrets, still referred to him in this way.

'You sure?' Jack asked in one of his customarily badly thought out sentences.

'Quite positive,' he said, without turning to face him.

'Are you alright?' Jack asked, after a long pause.

Under normal circumstances Erik would have found the question rather amusing. 'I'm fine, Jack,'

It fell quiet again but Erik's acute hearing picked up on the shuffle of Jack's feet moving from side to side. It was an irritating sound and he was suddenly glad he had not bothered to turn around to face the other man.

'I have a job for you, Jack,' Erik said.

'What do you need me to do?' Jack asked, without hesitation. It was one of the things that Erik liked about Jack. During their long association Erik had asked Jack to do many, _varied_ things. Never had Jack said no, never had he baulked or tried to sidestep, he simply did things without question.

'There is a bottle on the side in the kitchen,' he said. He heard Jack turn his body. 'I need you to take that to Madame Giry's home,'

'What instructions am I to give her?' he asked.

'Tell her only two drops per day,' Erik said and then, with a sinking stomach he added, 'Tell her… should it become too much for her all she need do is drink the whole bottle with some sugar, to make the taste bearable,'

Erik listened as Jack's feet faded to the kitchen and then returned. 'She's sick,' Jack said.

Erik nodded, 'Unfortunately, yes,'

'And it's serious,' Jack said.

It was not a question.

'Could you take it right away Jack?' Erik asked, and then added, 'Please,'

'I'll go now,' Jack said.

Erik did not say anything else, he simply waited for the sound of the rear door closing and for the first time in years he had the overwhelming urge to sleep in the afternoon.

* * *

Helen had gone home for the evening and left Christine and Benoit to enjoy the night alone. Raoul had left to meet Philippe and a business associate, although sceptically Christine assumed that this meeting involved alcohol and very little business. Raoul had taken to escorting his brother just about everywhere he went and Christine was forced to spend night after night alone. On Sundays there was no performance and so she and her son had been given an opportunity to spend some time together.

They had baked muffins and then eaten them. Benoit had insisted, as he always did, that they save one each for his father and uncle. Christine had wrapped them carefully and stored them in the pantry. Now Benoit's eyelids were beginning to look heavy and she smiled at him. 'Bed time,' she said.

He pouted.

'It's late,' she said.

'Five more minutes,' he begged, his eyes now only narrow slits.

'You can barely keep your eyes open,' she pointed out.

'I can,' he said, and then made a concerted effort to do just that. Other than looking a little silly, it did nothing to convince her that he should stay up any longer.

'It is already past your bedtime,' she told him.

'I know,' he grumbled as he forced himself to his feet. She followed him to his room and tucked him under his covers, adding an extra blanket as there was a chill in the air. Benoit's right hand fell to the side of the bed and gripped the handle of the music box he had taken from the theatre.

'You're not going to sleep with that are you?' she asked.

He blinked. 'No, but I listen to it before I sleep,'

Christine glanced down at the music box.

'It plays such a pretty melody,' Benoit said as his eyes closed.

She had no doubt of the type of beauty the melody held and so she didn't open the box. Instead, she leaned over and kissed her son's soft forehead, watching as he drifted into a peaceful sleep. She stayed a while longer, as she so often did now, until she was sure he was dreaming. Once satisfied that he was safe and sound she carefully clicked his door closed behind her and made her way back down stairs.

The fire was slowly beginning to die down and peculiarly, she wasn't at all surprised to find Erik sitting next to it.

'Raoul will be home soon,' she said because she simply did not know what else to do. He turned to look up at her, his face orange and glowing from the reflection of the fire. He looked oddly more alive than she could ever remember seeing him and yet his eyes were perhaps the dullest they had ever been.

'He will be some time yet,' Erik said.

He was _impossible_ to lie to.

'Why don't you sit, Christine?' he asked, his eyes catching her in their trap and holding her there until she obeyed.

She walked gingerly into the room and took the seat at the other side of the fireplace, furthest from him. Their contact had so far been fairly minimal and, much to her surprise, he had left her basically alone.

_Well_, with the exception of Jack's various intrusions.

'Can I help you?' she somehow asked through a throat that was so dry it was sore.

Erik laughed. It was deep and rich, and _beautiful_. 'If only you had asked me that all those years ago,'

She tried to swallow. 'Why are you here?'

He stared at her.

'I asked you that once,' he said, his head tilting to the side ever so slightly. 'Do you remember?'

She nodded.

She remembered.

How could she forget?

'Do you recall what you said to me?' he asked.

She nodded and told him, quietly, 'I remember, Erik, I remember _everything_,'

They fell into an uncomfortable silence. They both had things that they had wanted to say, at one time or another, and now that the opportunity presented itself it seemed that the time was not quite right. She wasn't sure why but something felt off...

'I am here about Antoinette,' he finally said, much to her relief although it was to be short lived.

'Madame Giry?' she asked. 'What about her?'

She watched as Erik turned his face to the fire and then as the flames played with the hue of his eyes.

'She is unwell,' he said, his voice so soft that she could only just make out the words.

'Unwell?' she asked, and it was only then that she realised that her own tone had softened to almost match his.

He nodded. 'I thought you should know,'

'When will she be better?' Christine asked foolishly. She knew from the look of utter sorrow on Erik's face that Madame Giry was not going to get better. She knew it was a silly question and she left it to hang there anyway, waiting for his confirmation.

'She won't,' he said, gently.

Christine felt her lip tremble but bit back the threatening tears. She cleared her throat and asked, 'How long?'

'I'm not a doctor,'

She managed to smile ruefully. 'Tell me anyway,'

'A month, perhaps, at best,' he said. 'I assumed you would want to know,'

Erik rose from his seat and adjusted his hat. 'She can work until the pain is too much,'

Christine did not know what to say.

'Which won't be for too much longer,' Erik added. 'Perhaps you could kindly arrange for Meg and her new husband to visit,'

Christine blinked her eyes and tears escaped at the thought of her friend. When the blurriness cleared she saw that Erik was watching her, 'Don't cry, Christine,' he said, his voice so soft it reminded her of the sensation of lamb's wool on her skin. 'Not yet, you will need to be strong for now,'

She nodded and wiped her eyes with the backs of her fingers. 'I'll write…'

'Perhaps a telegraph, given the urgency,'

She nodded. 'Yes, of course,'

Erik walked to the open window and then turned to her, 'I'm sorry,'

Christine thought of what she knew of their friendship and said, 'No, Erik, _I'm_ sorry,'

He left her standing there, staring at the window, wondering how so many terrible things could happen to one person.

* * *

A_**/N: Try not to hate me... I see this as necessary :)**_

**_Apologies for mucky format- this is . Whenever I insert a break is takes out the underlining and won't let me put it back._**


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: I will momentarily begin replying to the reviews for the last chapter. I just want to say here that in terms of the Madame Giry turn of events, there is method in my madness. **

**Without wanting to go into too much detail I will just say that Erik has and may always have horrendous back luck. Although he has always been able to make money (through one means or another Leroux, ALW and Kay all show this) emotionally he gets knock after knock. Although he has changed in this, I don't think this element would have too much. **

**Anyway, thank you all for the reviews... you should hopefully have a reply winging it's way to you soon. In the meantime; Erik and Christine…**

"_Say a prayer to yourself,_

_He says, 'close your eyes, sometimes it helps',_

_And I get a scary thought,_

_That he's here means he's never lost…_

_And you can see my heart beating,_

_You can see if through my chest,_

_Said I'm terrified, but I'm not leaving,_

_I know that I must pass this test,_

_So just pull the trigger" – Russian Roulette, Rihanna._

**Chapter 25**

Erik walked alone.

It was late and raining and his mood was foul. In spite of his best efforts over the past weeks Antoinette's condition still pained her and the injustice of it, frankly, infuriated him. He walked through the side alley as rain lashed at his back and dripped from the rim of his hat. It wasn't that he didn't know it was raining or that he was soaked to the bone, it was that he didn't care either way. Come rain or shine he was slowly being forced to face various inevitabilities… and it was maddening.

Christine did not come to him, Benoit did not know him and Antoinette was dying.

_Wonderful_.

He deftly sidestepped a black puddle, despite the temptation to land full bodied into the mess, and rounded the corner. A carriage was pulling up outside the theatre and he stepped back into the shadows to watch. The show had finished over an hour ago and he wondered who would be visiting so late.

When Raoul de Chagny stepped out of the cab he felt his stomach turn over.

He watched as the man he considered his primary adversary entered the theatre and stood in the lobby. Erik moved around through the shadows and peered into the window, his heart suddenly like ice in his chest. Raoul stood patiently, oblivious to the fact that he was being watched, and stared around him.

It wasn't until Christine joined him that Erik felt the chill down his spine, the tingling in his fingertips, the raw, unbridled envy in his gut. He watched when Raoul placed a kiss to his wife's cheek, he watched the look she gave him, the smile he flashed…

He moved aside as they stepped outside into the rain, the cab was standing there waiting, the horse's coats gleaming wet from the rain. Christine's eyes drifted over the cab and therein she spotted Philippe de Chagny. She turned her head and said something quietly to Raoul.

'Christine,' he said, his voice was stern and Erik smiled to himself. It would appear that Philippe still acted as their bone of contention.

'I can make my own way home,' she said defiantly.

Raoul face was hidden by the shadow of the carriage but Erik spotted the change in his posture, the setting of his shoulders and the stiffening of his back. 'Don't be silly Christine,'

Her eyes flashed with anger, 'How dare you, Raoul,' she hissed. '_Silly_? I wanted it to be just the two of us,'

'I only need to get the driver to drop him off,'

'You promised…'

'It will take less than thirty minutes,'

'By which time I will be ready for nothing but sleep,' she said and Erik swallowed back bile. _What had they planned to do?_

'You're being difficult,' Raoul sounded exasperated but not angry. Erik found himself astonished by the man's patience but was amused all the same.

'I'm going back inside,' she said glancing down at herself. It was as if she had only just noticed the pouring rain. 'I'm getting wet,'

'I can't leave you here,' and _again_ he sounded more concerned than angry yet Erik still felt no compassion for him.

'Jack is around here somewhere,' she said firmly. 'You hold your brother's hand and Jack can hold mine,'

Jack wasn't _around_, of course, Erik knew that and so did Christine.

'Christine…'

'Just take him home,' she said and Erik tried to ignore the sadness that had permeated her tone. 'I will see you back at the house,'

Raoul opened his mouth to argue again but must have thought better of it, because he simply sighed and let his wife walk back into the opera house. In moments he was back in the black carriage and they were disappearing out of sight.

Erik waited only minutes before Christine stepped outside, umbrella in hand, and began to walk down the street. He was about to catch up with her when he saw another shadow appear at the front of the theatre. Ricardo Bianchi exited and clicked the door closed behind him. Erik watched as he tugged his collar up to protect himself from the rain and then set off mere paces behind Christine.

Erik's mind flashed back twelve years and he felt a shot of anger spring through his veins. He knew that Ricardo could not resist beautiful women but he had not thought that the singing tutor would take to stalking them, not now. He stayed under the shadow of the buildings and began to follow.

Christine was more alert than Erik had given her credit for and within minutes she spun around and was face to face Bianchi. Erik paused and slunk deeper into the shadows.

'Ricardo,' she said simply and Erik could detect no note of anger or fear.

Bianchi smiled at her, 'I saw you walking, I thought we could walk together,'

Christine frowned. 'I was under the impression that you lived on the other side of the town,'

'Oh, I do,' Ricardo stammered. 'I just saw you walking alone. I was concerned,'

'No need, I'm fine,' she said as she turned to continue walking.

Ricardo reached out and grasped her wrist which she snatched back as she rounded to face him. 'Have you been drinking, Monsieur?'

'No… I…' he sighed. 'You're very hard to resist, Christine,'

Erik could feel his fingers twitching as his hands clenched to fists, a burning had developed in his chest and he was not only furious with Bianchi but also with himself.

A flicker of confusion past across Christine's eyes before she said, 'Really, I think you should go home,'

Ricardo reached for her again and this time Erik could see that his grip was much firmer.

'You're hurting me, Ricardo,' she said, calmly but her eyes betrayed her. Erik spotted the moment of fear flash through them and he straightened his back, ready to intervene.

'I'm sorry,' he said but did not relinquish his grip. 'I think it unwise for you to walk alone,'

She stared at him and just as Erik had had enough he heard Christine say, 'What makes you think I am walking alone?'

Erik paused and then, slowly, felt a smile spread across his lips.

Ricardo looked momentarily confused. 'I don't see anyone else,'

Christine tugged her arm back. 'Then I suggest you leave now, there is still time,'

Bianchi frowned.

'Please,' she said and Erik saw that she meant it. She really wanted him to just leave, to simply walk away. 'Just go,'

He stared at her, his expression almost pained. 'I can't,'

Christine sighed and said quietly, almost sadly, 'I think it might be your last chance,'

Ricardo Bianchi chose the difficult path. He did not turn and walk away, he did not heed her warning, he continued to stare at her and when he stepped forward Erik reached into his pocket, pulled out the length of twine he kept for all such occasions and slipped it over Ricardo's head, pulling it tightly at around his neck.

When nearly all of the air had faded from Bianchi's lungs Erik let his slightly limp body drop the floor. He watched as the singing tutor grasped his throat and gasped for breath. When Erik turned to his right he saw that Christine was entirely still, staring down at Ricardo and not even glancing at him.

Erik nudged Ricardo's leg with his foot. 'Do you remember me?'

Ricardo nodded, face so white it was verging on green.

'Then you know why I am here,'

'To kill me,' Ricardo croaked.

Erik smiled. 'Do you remember what I said to you the last time we met?'

Again, the other man nodded painfully.

'What did I tell you?'

'If I ever… If I ever went near another young girl again you would… you…' Ricardo looked over at Christine. 'She is not a young girl,'

Erik bunched the muscles in his jaw to calm himself. 'She refused your advances,'

He blinked but said nothing.

'No is a difficult word for you,' Erik said.

'I'm sorry,'

'_No_, sorry just won't do this time,' Erik said.

'I never touched Meg…'

'I saw you, Ricardo, you didn't touch her because I did not allow you to,'

Silence.

'I'm Schwarz,' Erik said, filling in the missing pieces.

Ricardo made a noise that sounded almost like a snort of laughter. 'If you knew all of this why did you hire me?'

'Because despite your many, _many_ shortcomings, you're a very talented tutor,' Erik told him. 'I thought perhaps you might have headed my warning. Clearly not... so this ends _now_,'

Bianchi began to tremble violently.

Erik laughed and leaned down. 'I won't kill you, Ricardo, death is far too good for you,'

The other man closed his eyes.

'I'm going to destroy you,' Erik said as his grabbed his lapel and heaved him to his feet. 'Your pathetic life is indeed over here but you will only _wish_ that I had killed you,'

Erik felt Christine shuffle at his side. She remained quiet but did not turn away and he wondered at how much she had changed.

'They'll all know of your penchant for little girls,' he said. 'Everyone will hear of your affairs, your wife will leave, of course, you will lose your children. They will hate you, as they should already,'

Ricardo began shaking his head frantically.

'You will never work again, I will make sure of it,'

'Please…'

'I gave you a chance,' Erik snapped. '_You_ have thrown it all away,'

'Please don't do this,'

'It is too late,' Erik growled. 'And all because you cannot keep your hands to yourself.'

'I'll be ruined,'

'And you somehow think that you don't deserve this?' Erik asked, amazed. 'Get out of here, I don't want to see your face near this theatre again,'

Ricardo nodded and started to back away.

'And when we meet again Ricardo,' Erik said. 'When I come to you in a few years... and I will… when your world has finally crumbled all around you, when you cannot get away from the nightmares, when you are considered a leper… you will be down on your knees and you will _beg_ me to kill you,'

With that Ricardo turned, soaked and muddy from the rain, and bolted into the distance, his feet pounding the wet floor until he faded into the black distance.

Erik finally turned to Christine. 'How did you know I was there?'

'I always know when you're there,' she said and began to walk again. 'You know him well then?'

Erik walked at her side, resisting the urge to look at her, 'I have only met him once before,'

'Did he ever hurt Meg?' she asked.

'No,' Erik answered honestly. 'Not Meg… a few others,'

'Perhaps you should not have let him go,' it was a strange suggestion from a woman he knew to be so soft, so just...

Erik sighed, 'He had a promising career ahead of him and he was young. I didn't care enough for the other ballet girls to really ruin him,'

'You didn't care much for Meg, as I recall,' Christine said lightly.

'I cared very much for Antoinette,'

'You don't have an umbrella,' she said as she glanced at him. 'There is no need to escort me,'

He laughed. 'I'm not escorting you,'

'Then what are you doing?'

He ignored the question, 'How is Benoit?'

She looked at him, a shimmer of something he didn't recognise crossed her eyes before she answered, 'He is fine,'

Erik nodded. 'Did you contact Meg?'

'I did,'

'And?'

'She will be here as soon as travel permits,'

They walked in silence for a moment before she turned to him and said, 'Our conversations are… you seem almost normal these days,'

'Is that supposed to be a compliment?' he asked.

'No,' she said. 'It's an observation,'

'Your mood matches the weather,' he said simply.

She sighed. 'It hasn't been the best of days, '

'That almost sounds like an apology,'

She could not hide her smile and Erik felt instantly buoyed. 'It's the closest you're likely to get,' she informed him.

From the look on her face he knew _that_ was the truth.

She stopped walking and turned to him. 'Where do you live?' she asked.

'Not far from here,'

Her eyes deepened with sadness. 'It's strange... I don't want to go home,'

With those words she became instantly the young woman from Paris, the one he taught to sing, the one he had so long ago fallen in love with and in spite of himself he said, 'Your husband will worry,'

'My husband worries more for his brother than he does for me,' she said. Erik genuinely doubted that this was true but certainly did not feel the need to tell Christine that.

'You should go home,' he said as he felt the constant battle roll on within him. Today his mind was winning as he looked at the rain dripping from the umbrella onto her skirt. 'You could perhaps take a warm bath and change your clothes,'

Her eyes were fixed to his and it was in that moment that he finally noticed just how close they were standing. As her lips parted, in a gesture of what Erik would never know, a carriage rumbled up ahead of them. He recognised the driver from the distance and slipped back into the shadows.

When Raoul climbed out Erik could only watch as he pulled Christine into his arms and kissed her damp hair. He helped her into the carriage and whispered something into her ear. Erik had no desire to know what he said but he stood there and watched as the horses pulled away.

As the carriage past he could have sworn that he saw Christine's face searching for him in the darkness.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: **_Just as a matter of interest- what prompts you all to read a particular fic? Do you always look for E/C stories? Or ones that already have plenty of reviews? Long stories (with long chapters) or a really good summary? Do you look at the title?_

_For me, it's a lot to do with the title. If it is one I have seen a hundred times... I (probably wrongly) avoid it. Also, I have never read a modern day Phantom but am becoming slowly intrigued by them. I don't touch parodies or humour. Some people are very good at humour but I find it the most difficult thing to write. I don't think Phantom lends itself to humour easily and to do humour it must be subtle. _

_Anyway, as I am not too far off finishing this I would like to hear some recommendations. Either complete or regularly updated. I have two stories by Broken Vow to read (one recommendation, one because I already read the first chapter). Before anyone recommends her: I have read all of WanderingChild's work._

_Feel free to point towards your own too..._

_Answers on a post card to the usual address._

_If any of you are expecting a torrid affair between Erik and Christine, then I'm afraid you're reading the wrong story. There will be moments, of course, and they are coming but there will be nothing even remotely similar to the Prologue of this. _

_I think that will disappoint some and make others feel relieved. _

_Saying that, though, I won't be giving away the ending- E/C, R/C or neither... maybe?_

_Onwards..._

**Chapter 26**

Meg Giry arrived with her usual flourish and Christine could not remember having ever been so pleased to see anyone before in her entire life. She met them at the port with Benoit and admitted to herself that Meg had chosen a husband who was perfect for her. He was slightly taller, broad and had handsome features, with soft sandy hair and clear blue eyes. Christine thought that he looked honest and hoped that he always made Meg as happy as she looked at that moment.

She smiled when she saw them approaching and when they were close enough Meg dropped her umbrella to the floor and flung her dainty arms around Christine. They stood there, holding each other like that, for a long time and despite the bustling and passersby, neither of them felt compelled to end the embrace.

'I've missed you,' Meg whispered into her hair. 'It's been too long,'

Finally, Christine pulled back and held her long time friend at arm's length so that she could take her in. 'You look wonderful, Meg,'

Her friend blushed pink, but she had never been easily embarrassed and turned to her new husband. 'Fredrick,' she said to him, holding her hand out and waiting for him to take it. He did so with a smile and stood at her side. 'This is Christine… my _very_ best friend,'

Fredrick took her hand in his and kissed it softly. 'I'm so pleased to finally meet you,'

Christine smiled, 'And I you,'

Meg turned to Benoit and held her arms out. Her son leapt into them and Meg kissed his cheeks and his hair, culminating in a long tickle of his ribs that only ended when he managed to squirm from her grasp. 'You're so tall!'

Benoit rolled his eyes. 'I am not tall,'

Meg giggled. 'Taller than when we last met, little one,'

He blushed.

They all walked from the dock and to the awaiting carriage, climbing in one by one. Meg sat with her back to the driver and her hand enclosed in her husband's grasp. As they rode along Meg told her about their wedding and their short honeymoon to Italy. She told her about keeping Giry as her stage name, because people knew her by it, but actually her new surname was Berger. The conversation was free flowing and warm, as if they had barely spent a day apart and Christine was pleased for her friend's happiness.

It was only when they pulled up at the house that Meg said to her, 'I can only stay for a few days,'

Christine placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and guided her into the family room. Benoit had rushed off to show Fredrick the room he and his new wife would be staying in. Despite her asking him to be there, Raoul was nowhere to be seen, and so she sat Meg down and gripped her hands.

'Is mother really ill?' Meg asked and there was an almost childlike hope in her eyes that Christine only wished that she could preserve.

Christine swallowed the lump that had formed round and hard in her throat and said, 'She is, I'm sorry,'

'Perhaps I should have insisted on more time off from the ballet,' Meg said distantly.

'You risk losing your post if you do that…' Christine reassured her.

'But she's my mother…'

'And she would not wish you to lose your job over this,' Christine said, grasping her friend's cool hand. 'You know that,'

Meg nodded and, for a moment, Christine thought that she might cry but instead, she sucked in a deep breath and forced a brave smile. 'I don't know what to do,'

'I'll be here for you,' Christine told her. 'If you need me,'

Meg hugged her quickly. 'When shall we go and see her… is she still managing to work?'

Christine nodded. 'But only two days per week,'

'I'm surprised the theatre owner isn't upset with her,' Meg said. 'Illness such as this usually means losing your income,'

Momentarily Christine felt as though her heart had stopped beating, 'Well, she's very valued,' she eventually said and at least she could console herself with the fact that it was not a lie.

To her surprise Meg actually looked sceptical but Christine was relieved when Meg said, 'Perhaps there is more to it, perhaps they are in love?'

Christine smiled, 'I don't know about that,'

'Have you met him?'

'Well, he's very busy,' Christine managed to say through what felt like cracks in her throat. The words were strained and she chastised herself inwardly for her emotions.

Meg was frowning at her but before she had chance to question her friend, Fredrick and Benoit walked back in. 'What a lovely house,' Fredrick said and the compliment was, in that moment, the most welcome thing she thought she had ever heard.

'Thank you,' she responded, flashing him a smile. 'Is your room to your liking?'

'Oh yes,' Fredrick replied. 'Benoit has been showing me around,'

Her son puffed out his chest and Meg grinned at him. It was amazing how easily children could make even the saddest of people smile. Fredrick moved over to her and placed his hand gently on her shoulder. She covered his fingers with her own and sighed, 'I think we should waste no more time,'

He nodded.

She turned to Christine, 'We're going to go and see mother, do you think she will be home?'

Christine nodded, 'She knows you're here today, I'm sure she is waiting to see you,'

Christine offered to escort them there as she lived so close to the theatre and so they all set off just over thirty minutes later. The ride over to Antoinette's modest home was done mostly in an uncomfortable silence. Old friends they certainly were but this situation was one they had never found themselves in together before and neither seemed to know quite what to say or do.

She knew from experience that no words of comfort were ever enough. She knew how it felt to lose your parents, she knew how it felt to want them to stay so badly that your heart physically hurt. Meg had never really known her father, she had been so young when he has passed on. Her mother had been all she had known, her guide and her friend, and now she must face the prospect of her not being there anymore.

Christine sighed inwardly.

When the carriage clunked up outside the apartments Christine reached out and squeezed her friend's hand gently. Meg looked up and smiled.

'Send my love, won't you?' Christine said.

Meg simply nodded, grasped her husband's hand and stepped out the carriage. Christine followed to the edge of the path but then turned and walked in the other direction, towards the theatre. As she rounded the next corner she found that she was not completely alone.

'Good afternoon,' Erik said as she looked up and their eyes met.

'How is it that you somehow always manage to be where I am?'

His eyes twinkled in the sunlight, a sight she had rarely been treated to in Paris, 'Fate,'

She managed to smile at him.

'I was visiting Antoinette,' he said.

'How is she?' she asked, although she was fairly sure that she did not really want to know the answer.

'She is having a bad day,'

'I've just dropped Meg there…'

'I saw,'

Silence fell between them and aside from the occasional shout from a house, the street was quiet. Christine let her eyes linger on his for a moment, the sharpness and brightness of them a stark contrast to the darkness of his features, of his soul.

'Meg can't stay for long,' Christine said, inexplicably.

He stared at her, no words, but she could hear his breathing, low and deep, to everyone else he was silent but she could hear him clearly. She could always hear him.

'I mean…'

'I know,' he said.

'Career…'

'I know,'

_Why was she telling him this_? She swallowed, 'I wish I could do something,'

'Such as?' he asked.

She shrugged, helpless.

'Unfortunately, there is nothing any of us can do,'

'You always sound so reasonable,'

He eyed her with amusement. 'That isn't something I hear often,'

She managed to smile at him. It was true that over the years his temper had been basically beyond control and that when his emotions brimmed they inevitably overflowed, but to say he was without reason would be a lie. The man had excellent reason, _perfect_ logic. It was his application that was sometimes the problem.

Christine was about to say more when she noticed that his eyes had averted to something over her shoulder and it was only then that she felt the approach of someone behind her. When she turned she was greeted by soft blue eyes and long blonde hair.

'Samantha,' Erik nodded. 'This is Christine… Christine, Samantha,'

The other woman, Samantha, cast a suspicious eye across Christine before saying, completely without warmth, 'How do you do?'

Christine forced a smile, 'Pleased to meet you, Samantha,'

Erik said, 'Samantha works for me,'

Christine almost laughed but somehow managed to refrain. 'I'm sure she does,'

Erik's eyebrow twitched slightly but he said nothing.

'I was just leaving,' Christine said, her eyes meeting Erik's. 'Lovely to see you, Monsieur Schwarz,'

She was not really sure quite what she expected or what it was that she was feeling. Her body was strangely numb and yet her mind was buzzing and flashing from thought to thought. Uncomfortable as she was, she felt remarkably alive but she had no idea what it was that had stirred inside her at that moment.

She turned and walked away. Erik did not call her back nor did he follow her, and that was fine with Christine.

All except for the fact that she wasn't quite sure if it was.

* * *

'Your timing is impeccable,' Erik said, his tone cool. Samantha smiled one of her best smiles at him as she hooked her arm through his. He did not really respond but allowed the gesture and as they began to walk, he felt Samantha's eyes on his face.

'Is that the one you have been keeping your eye on?' she asked.

Erik glanced sideways at her. 'How is it going?' he said, without answering the question.

She shrugged in such a way that it was alarmingly sexual. Samantha was sultry, she did it naturally and he knew that she did not put any extra effort into it on his behalf. These things did little to move him though, love was not about the way you moved your shoulders or the way you pinned your hair, it was something entirely different.

In his mind, when he thought about love and all that it seemed to promise, he always saw Christine.

'It isn't really going anywhere,' she replied.

He left the silence hanging there, knowing that she could not resist the urge to fill it.

'Raoul does not respond to me,'

Erik said nothing.

'Can you believe that?' she asked.

He turned his eyes to her, 'Yes,'

'If you were so sure that this would be the outcome why did you set me the task to begin with?' she asked.

This time he smiled at her. 'Curiosity,'

She huffed and it made her look like a child.

'Some men _are_ capable of overcoming your powers, Samantha,' he said simply as they approached the front of the office building.

She scowled but said nothing. He was sometimes amazed by her arrogance but at other times she could be very sweet. An entirely different person.

'So what am I to do now?' she asked him as he pushed the door open.

'Continue and wait for more instructions,'

She rolled her eyes and placed her hand on his forearm, 'Do you always have to be so cryptic?'

'Do you always have to be so tactile?' he retorted with a sharp glance down to her fingers. She slowly removed her hand from his arm.

'You're so irritable,' she said.

He swallowed a sigh. He had plans for Samantha and therefore, wanted to keep her happy. He never quite understood women who felt that they should flaunt themselves at all wealthy men, but then again, he didn't really understand the wealthy men who fell for their questionable charms either.

He bid Samantha farewell a little more tersely than he had originally planned but felt no guilt as he climbed the secret passages that led to his office.

Despite Samantha's interruption, his mind was focused on Christine as he feared it might always be.

* * *

**A/N2: **_No time to give this a final run through before posting so apologies for any errors. I was tempted not to post at all today but that would mean making everyone wait until Monday and I am determined that 2 updates a week is the way this will continue until I a) run out of chapters or b) finish._

_**A/N3**: Okay, FF... why can I only underline when I edit the format if it's not FIRST bolded... RARRRRR_


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Not a long chapter but there are some really long ones to follow. **

'_A single lifetime lays behind her,_

_As she draws her final breath,_

_Just beyond the door he'll find her,_

_Taking her hand he softly says:_

_For the first time you can open your eyes,_

_See the world without your sorrow,_

_And no-one knows the pain you left behind,_

_And all the peace you could never find,_

_Is waiting there to hold and keep you,_

_Welcome to the first day of your life,_

_Just open up your eyes'_

_**Open up Your Eyes by Daughtry **_

**Chapter 27**

Two days after Meg left to return to France, Christine decided that it was time to swallow her sadness and pay a visit to Madame Giry. Up until Meg had come to stay, the ballet mistress was still working and keeping a tight leash on the dancers, but since her daughter had left she seemed to have deteriorated quite badly. As if all of the energy she had somehow kept in reserve had disappeared when Meg did.

Christine never found the courage to ask Erik what he thought might be wrong with her and knowing him, she suspected he didn't want to answer her questions anyway. Ultimately, she had been neglectful of the woman who had become almost a mother to her in her teen years and now she was feeling guilty about it.

Instead of knocking at the front door she made her way around to the back. She knew that Madame Giry was now incredibly unwell and knew she would probably not quite have the strength to keep getting up and down to answer doors. The back door was, however, usually open and this was how she found it then.

The house was quiet and as she made her way through to the living room she felt a cold prickle of something along her skin, whatever it was made her hairs stand on end and the feeling wasn't altogether pleasant. She wasn't quite sure what the sensation was but she did not like it and, try as she might, she simply could not shake it away.

On entering the living room she finally realised what the feeling was.

Antoinette lay on the bed that now stayed in the room but her eyes were closed and she was completely still. Christine stared for a moment but could make out no rise and fall of her chest, no movements of sleep. Erik sat to the left of the bed in a chair, shrouded in shadow and surrounded by sadness.

In the silence and calmness of the room he sat staring up at her as she now turned her eyes to him. She opened her mouth to speak but no words would come out. Her throat had completely closed and her eyes began to sting with tears.

She wondered what would happen now.

'She must have died in the night,' Erik said but his voice sounded strange. It was a thick, clogged tone that she had never heard before. She could make no sense of it but she could not take her eyes away from him either and through his utter stillness, he moved her. She felt her heart cave in on itself, the little crumble that she could almost hear as if the edges were giving way under the pressure.

When she looked at Erik his mask stood out clearly from the dimness but the rest of him was black. She could not even see his eyes.

Christine swallowed the lump in her throat and asked, 'What time did you arrive?' as if it mattered, as if any of it mattered, but it was all she could manage.

She saw his shadow shift in the corner of the room. 'I have been here only minutes,'

'Could…' she was glad when he cut her off mid sentence because she was sure she was about to ask a incredibly silly question. Despite this words were flooding her mind, swimming in and out but in no coherent order and she felt like she should speak, but she had no idea what she should say.

'Would you mind getting me a glass of Antoinette's freshly squeezed oranges? I find I'm feeling rather thirsty,' he said, ending her dilemma.

He rarely asked her for anything, let alone for her to wait on him, and so she simply nodded her head, not knowing what to do or what to say. She turned her back and walked to the kitchen, leaning on the wall as she did because she could no longer trust her legs to keep her upright.

She was unsteady with the realisation, the shock, disbelief.

_Antoinette Giry had died in the night. _

Christine found the jug of fresh orange juice and began hunting around for a clean glass. She was fumbling and ungraceful but she didn't really care. She could barely think straight. When she located a glass she poured the juice towards the container but found that her hands were quivering so much that she barely got any into it.

She took a moment and rested her palms onto the cold countertop, trying to regain her composure. With deep breaths she managed to get her trembling under control and actually get some orange into the glass. Sure now that she would be more steady on her feet she lifted the glass and walked back to the living room. When she stepped inside, Erik was kneeling by the side of Madame Giry, her hand clasped in his, his face down cast.

Christine was about to speak when she noticed the tear roll along the edge of his mask and drip to the bed. In that instant she knew that whatever words she might be able to conjure would simply not be enough. They could not ease this burden or lessen the hurt.

Instead, she placed the glass onto the ornament cabinet and walked gingerly into the room. Erik did not turn his face, he did not look up. When she knelt at his side, he did not flinch. When she wrapped her arms around him, he did not recoil.

Completely motionless they both knelt there, she held him tighter than she had ever held anyone in her life and he let her do it. He did not sob, he did not shout, he did not move. They quietly stayed still and although he did not stir, she felt his pain radiate through her. She was not quite sure how long she sat there with her arms around him but it was he who stood abruptly and brushed her aside.

His eyes found hers as she pushed herself to her feet. 'I'm sorry, Erik,' she said, because she did not know what else to say.

'It's hardly your fault,' he said sharply.

She swallowed. 'Don't be angry with me, Erik,'

He blinked. 'It isn't you that I'm angry with,'

'Then who?' she asked because he _was_ angry. She _knew_ his anger.

He let out a low sound, almost like a growl, his eyes shimmered a murky grey, 'Everyone, _everything_,'

She did not know what she could say to him. She wanted to offer words of peace but she could see in his eyes that peace had left him long ago.

Erik glanced at Madame Giry and then turned his gaze back onto Christine, 'Tell me how it is just that a man like me should live and woman like her should die?'

A sharp jab of sadness found her heart, 'We all die, Erik,'

His eyes hardened on her but he didn't say anything and momentarily she felt completely lost. The sadness that she felt at losing the ballet mistress, she suddenly realised, was barely a star in a wide sky compared to Erik's loss, Erik's sadness. When she looked at him then, she could see it all.

She reached out and touched his arm, hoping that the softness of her touch would give him at least some comfort. At first, he did not move, but she left her hand there all the same. He would push her away or he would accept the gesture, either way she would not be the one to withdraw it. Finally, Erik's hand moved and found hers.

'I'm being selfish,' he said, his voice laced with sorrow.

'You're not,' she assured him and she believed the words. Erik had been selfish in his life, but never deliberately. The only selfishness she had ever really witnessed in him was that born of naivety, as hers once was. Time had moved and things had changed, neither of them were quite the people they were a decade ago and yet as she stood there, their hands pressed against each other, she realised that little had changed.

She would forever be drawn to this man and he would forever love her. Even in his grief he thought of her and even in his grief she could not leave him alone.

Finally, he released her hand and moved to the door. 'You should go,'

'I want to help,'

He looked at her, his eyes his mask of sadness. 'There isn't much you can do,'

She noticed the softening of his voice and she walked towards the door.

'I will do what needs to be done here,' he said, a sureness returning to his tone, 'I think you should inform Meg,'

She nodded. It wasn't much but it was something. It would hurt to tell her friend, it would hurt to know the pain that she was in, it would hurt to know that she could not be with her and that Meg could unlikely afford to return.

When she made it to the door he did not move aside. She knew the awkwardness he felt because she felt it too. So much had crossed between them over the years, so much had happened to them and yet so little of it seemed to matter in that moment. Swallowing more tears she said, 'I will go then,'

He nodded and the sorrow in his eyes made her want to wrap him in her arms and block out the world. As she stared in his eyes she saw Benoit, she saw the innocence of a child and she wished that she could somehow make things better. It was impossible, of course, the only thing that could make this better would be to discover it was all a horrible dream.

It was not, though.

She brushed past him as she walked through the door and for a minute she thought he might stop her, perhaps she even hoped that he would, but after a second of hesitation he let her go without another word.

The night on the balcony months before was not forgotten, and never would be, but it was forgiven. Her anger with him was gone and she found that she could no longer blame him for what he had done. She understood it, even if she did not agree with it. Over the years she had learnt that no matter what, bearing grudges never helped, and so she simply let it go.

As she left Madame Giry's house she glanced back over her shoulder and she could make out Erik's dark shadow in the living room window. He was still but she could not tell if he was looking at her too. She turned her head and continued to walk.

As she did she finally allowed the building tears to flow freely from her eyes. She made no attempt to hold them any longer. Madame Giry had been a good, strong woman with principles and firm beliefs that she worked hard to always adhere to. Values that she instilled in the work she did and inspired in the people she knew.

Though strong, Madame Giry would always be remembered by Christine for her softer side. The side that nurtured Christine's teenaged years, the side that loved her daughter wholeheartedly, the side that had blessed her marriage to Raoul without a moment's hesitation and the side that had loved a ghost.

She always managed to find the good in people.

Christine would often wonder if Antoinette Giry was the only friend that Erik had. She knew of Nadir but did not know the depth of their friendship or where he was now, leaving her to assume that Erik was now without a true friend in the world.

She felt a chill just thinking about it.

She had commented to Jack that she did not know if Erik even knew what love was. How wrong she was.

Erik knew love like no one else.

He knew pure and unbridled love, the kind that makes you do crazy, ill thought out things. He knew the kind of love that brought you to your knees, the kind that lifted you up again, the untouchable, unbreakable kind.

Not only this, Erik also knew the love of a friend.

He knew how he felt to have the love of that one true friend that takes you through life, who is your confidante and your guidance, your advisor _and_ your conspirator. That one friend who you know your secrets are _always_ safe with, who you know will fight for you, lie for you and potentially die for you.

Christine could not help but think that everyone longs to be loved that way.

After all, she was one of them.

* * *

**A/N2: Thank you for the great reviews for the last chapter and all of the answers to my questions... plus the recommendations. There is a great story I started reading just before I started writing this but it's VERY slowly updated. Despite this, I'm enjoying it so far. **_**'If I Could Fly' - Jlgrant**_


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: I think I managed to reply to all of the reviews left before Friday but if I missed you, please accept my apologies. **

**Thank you all for continuing to read this and my apologies for not updating on Friday.**

**Chapter 28**

The days following Antoinette's death went by in somewhat of a blur. He had made arrangements for her to be taken to a church where she could lie in peace and after that had found himself at an utter loss. It was peculiar the way things worked; he had not seen Antoinette in almost ten years and yet now that he had experienced his friend back in his life, he felt truly adrift without her.

He neatened his long, black coat, choosing to leave his cloak behind, and slipped in at the back of the crowd, underneath the concealing shade of an oak tree. He could see the back of Christine and he noted that Raoul's arm was very firmly hooked around his wife's shoulders. He almost snorted in disgust, but remained silent.

The priest, an elderly, gentle man, spoke some thoughtful words as the dirt drifted down onto the coffin at the bottom of the grave. Erik wished for a moment that he could be nearer to the front so that he could offer some words of his own and yet as quickly as the thought arrived at his mind it vanished. Erik knew that she was not there. No words could bring her back, his mumblings and musings were as useless to her now as they had often been in her life, and so he settled his back against the tree and listened to the kind words of the priest.

He was not a religious man and had no desire to become one but he enjoyed listening to this priest, if only because the tone of his voice was so pleasing. It was soft, almost powdery and yet not so wispy that it was lost on the chilly breeze. Erik briefly wondered if the man had ever turned his hand at singing.

The thoughts moved away as soon as the mourners did. For someone who had spent such a short amount of time in her new country, Antoinette had attracted quite a band of admirers and friends. He used to envy her ease at gaining people's respect but he soon found his own ways of doing the same.

Perhaps Antoinette's methods were better, though, _in hindsight._

When the crowd turned he slid behind the wide trunk of the tree and allowed its shadow to hide him from view. As they walked towards the church he saw Christine glance over her shoulder and around.

_Was she looking for him?_

Erik let himself believe that she was.

The balance of their relationship was forever altered and he had felt the shift the day she had found him at Antoinette's home. He could still feel the gentle warmth of her hand on his shoulder and the softness of her breath in his hair. At the time he could see nothing but sadness but when he looked back, he wondered how he not reciprocated her hold… he had yearned for it for so long.

Grief was a strange demon indeed.

He watched as she walked away and felt a tug at the strings of his heart, the same feeling he got every time she wandered out of his sight. He could honestly say that in all of his years; travelling Europe, living in America, the delights of Paris, in all of that time he had never found a view to compete with that of Christine's radiance. It angered him, sometimes, that he had been so unable to let her go, that she was still the centre to everything he did, everything he lived for. _And yet..._

He shrugged the feelings away and turned his back on the congregation. Jack was waiting by the carriage on the small road at the side of the church. Strangely, Erik had expected to see him, although had not asked for his presence.

'Jack,' he said, with a nod as he climbed into the carriage.

Jack did not follow him in but he held the door open and, for a moment, a look of complete unease crossed the younger man's face.

'What is it, Jack?' Erik asked firmly, in reference to his clearly pained expression. His patience was not his best quality, even in the most ideal of situations.

'I was just…' he coughed to clear his throat. 'I was just wondering how you were,'

Erik stared at him, astounded by his concern. 'I'm fine,'

Jack stood there quietly.

'Anything else?' Erik asked.

Jack shrugged his shoulders and smiled, closing the carriage door and leaving Erik to ponder the peculiar exchange. He prompted the driver to move off and glanced out of the window at the back. Jack was walking towards the church, to do the job he was paid for, and Erik was confused by his worry.

Their relationship had never been a particularly close one but, he supposed, as time had gone by they had become something akin to friends. Jack was like Erik in many ways, he saw this the first time they had ever met, but there were also many differences. Jack rarely used much initiative; not that he was incapable, he just chose not to. Jack was also not as skilled as Erik, nor as subtle as Erik might like him to be. Occasionally, things had been known to get a bit messy. Still, he did rather a good job for the most part and he was sometimes necessary company. He was Erik's eyes and ears in the de Chagny house and he had been invaluable at times.

As much as he hated to admit it, he needed Jack now nearly as much as Jack needed him.

* * *

Jack went back to the de Chagny home with some of the other mourners. It was clear to him that Raoul's invitation of drinks at his home had not gone down particularly well with his wife. In the months Jack had known her he had learned to read Christine's face and, although he was hardly an expert, he actually considered himself pretty adept at it now.

He slunk in through the back and watched as the few mourners that had accepted Raoul's invitation gathered in the parlour room for drinks. Jack turned away from them and followed Christine through to the kitchen.

'Do you need any help?' he asked as the door swished shut behind him.

Christine jumped at the sound of his voice but composed herself quickly, 'I think you should start wearing a bell,'

'I'll choose to take that as a compliment,'

Her eyes narrowed. 'Helen will be putting together something for the guests to nibble while they talk, so _no_, no help from you,'

Jack stared at her and although he was slowly getting used to her remoteness from him, the icy tone of her voice and her stiff body language, it did not mean that he had to like it. From all others he would simply take it in his stride but he had made every effort to show her that he was sorry for the deception. She seemed to have forgiven Erik and, so far as Jack was concerned, he was the instigator of the whole thing. A far worse crime than Jack following orders.

'Perhaps Helen would like some help?' he said, turning to the cook with a smile. He liked Helen, she was quiet and pretty and an excellent source of information, even though she didn't mean to be.

Helen glanced over and smiled back but said nothing. There was no way that she would defy her mistress.

Christine was looking at him, 'Thank you for your concern, but you should join the other guests,'

'I really would like to help,' he said.

'There is nothing for you to do and I am sure the other guests are missing your _dazzling_ presence,'

This brought a smile to his face. The last couple of months, Jack had seen a side of Christine that was cold and indifferent with an edge of sarcasm that even the wittiest of all society would be proud of. He turned to see Helen carry a tray from the room and as the door closed he said, 'We could at least try to be civil,'

Christine glared at him, 'I have no reason to be civil to you,'

'I have never hurt you,'

Her eyes widened in disbelief, 'You have wormed your way into my home…'

'On Erik's orders and yet you seem to have forgiven him,'

He watched as she took a breath, 'I have known Erik for many years and, although what he has done is wrong, he did not lie his way into my family home where I have always previously felt safe,'

Jack said nothing.

'You have climbed the walls of my sanctuary, Jack,' she explained. 'I trusted you… I didn't trust him. Your betrayal is by far the biggest crime here,'

He opened his mouth to launch yet another defensive statement but the door swung open and Raoul wandered through with a glass of wine in his hand.

'There you are,' he said, smiling warmly at his wife.

Christine returned the smile and, although her face softened, her eyes lacked the warmth of her husband's. Immediately Jack felt guilty again for making her feel so tense that she could not even smile at her own family properly.

'Hello darling,' she said, placing a soft kiss on Raoul's cheek as he approached.

'Are you alright?' Raoul asked, completely ignoring Jack's presence, which was fine with him.

'I'm fine,' she said. 'Jack was offering his assistance in the kitchen,'

Raoul turned and raised his eyebrows, 'Really? You don't strike me as the culinary type,'

Jack forced a smile, 'I thought I could help but Christine and Helen have things under control,'

Raoul smiled.

'Where is Benoit?' Christine asked.

'In the parlour room looking rather bored, unfortunately,' Raoul said. 'I was thinking about taking him and the guests out onto the beach… then at least he can play,'

Christine nodded, 'Do keep your eye on him, though, you know how he likes to wander,'

'Are you staying in here?' he asked.

She nodded. 'I will just finish helping Helen and then I will be out,'

Raoul smiled, kissed her cheek again and turned to leave.

'Keep your eye on him,' she insisted.

'I will,' Raoul told her.

'And take Jack with you,' she said. 'He is lurking,'

Jack grinned at her but left anyway, following Raoul through to the balcony and then down the steps onto the soft sand of the beach. The sea was choppy and it was cool but not raining. The guests all looked tired but they had begun to smile as they discussed their recollections of their shot time with Antoinette Giry.

If Jack was honest he had grown quite fond of the ballet mistress himself. He had found her a strong, capable and honest woman, who was not at all afraid to speak her mind. He would probably miss her quite a lot.

Jack scanned the crowd and spotted Raoul at the back, shuffling Philippe de Changy onto the bench. Apparently, he had had a little more to drink than was strictly appropriate. Then he let his eyes drift across the rest of the mourners until he suddenly realised that he could not see young Benoit. He turned around and looked behind him, glanced into the house, looked across the back of the yard but still he could see no sign of him.

Then, as he turned again, he saw the outline of a shape in the water. Slowly he began to move towards the sea until he realised, to his horror, that it was indeed Benoit struggling to stay afloat on the tremulous waves.

He broke into a sprint, the closest to the water's edge by quite a long way, and shouted back for help as he did. He flung his jacket to the floor and threw himself into the water. The cold made him gasp and he sucked in air desperately trying to compose himself. He looked up just in time to see Benoit drop below the surface and so Jack swam.

He swam as hard and as fast as he had ever thought possible. His arms wound, his legs pumped, his heart raced and he swam with everything he had. His trousers were clinging to his legs, making them heavy, but it didn't matter as he forced his way through the waves, salt water pouring across him. Forcing himself to keep his eyes open he dipped underwater.

It was murky and he could barely see but just in front of him he made out the shadow of what he hoped was the young de Chagny. He reached out and grabbed material, heaving it back up to the surface with him. It was heavy and when he made it, he pulled Benoit into his chest and began to swim backwards with him.

He had no idea if the boy was still breathing or not but there was absolutely nothing he could do for him in the middle of the sea. As he got closer to land he felt hands on him, and then the weight of Benoit being taken away.

Lying on his back, feeling sand beneath him, he coughed and choked and tried to regain his breath. When he managed to open his eyes they stung with the remnants of the salt and focused on an unfamiliar face staring down at him.

'Are you alright?' the man asked, his dark eyes black with worry.

Jack didn't care, 'Where is Benoit? Is Benoit alright?'

The man reached down and helped him to his feet then pointed over at the house. 'They took him inside… he was breathing… you saved his life,'

Jack broke into a run that he did not think that he was capable of and burst through the crowd of onlookers into the parlour room. Benoit lay wrapped in towels and blankets on the settee, Christine knelt at his side stroking his wet hair with an affection she had clearly never afforded anyone else. Raoul stood stock still behind them, staring through wide eyes, pale and shaking.

When he heard Jack he turned, 'Jack,' his voice was barely above a scratch.

Christine turned her head. 'How could you, Raoul?'

Jack closed the door, shutting out the rest of the crowd.

Raoul shook his head, unable to speak.

'I told you,' she said, her voice high and strained. Panicked. 'I told you to watch him, I _told_ you!'

'I know,' Raoul managed to say.

'Just…' she took a breath but it didn't stop her voice from shaking. 'I can't look at you,'

Raoul's white face twisted with sadness and he simply turned and left the room, leaving Jack alone with Christine. Finally she turned her gaze to him. She stared at him for a long, _long_ time and he had no idea what she would say or what he might expect. Suddenly she stood and walked to the cupboard at the back of the room.

When she walked back she was holding towels and blankets. She threw one of the towels around his shoulders and handed him the blanket.

'Please,' she said, her eyes meeting his. 'You will freeze to death,'

It was only then that he realised he was not wearing his shirt. 'I'm sorry,' he said, glancing down, embarrassed and suddenly feeling very cold.

She touched his arm, through the towel and he glanced down at her fingertips. 'It doesn't matter,'

He looked up so that he could see her face because without seeing her eyes he had no idea what she was referring to. _What_ didn't matter?

She must have seen the look of confusion on his face because she sighed and said, 'I forgive you,' and that was when Jack saw the tears building in her eyes.

He resisted the urge to reach out to her, an urge he had felt so few times in his life, and instead asked, 'What for?'

'_Everything_,' she told him. 'I forgive you for everything, I forgive you… I… you saved my son… and... I _forgive_ you,'

A sob escaped and Jack was again forced to resist the instinct to hold her, she looked so fragile, more fragile than he thought he had ever seen any woman.

'I don't know what I would have done,' she looked down at her son. 'How could I have gone on without him? What if…'

'Don't think about that,' Jack said, quickly, because he knew what 'what ifs' could do to someone. He knew how they ate at you, burrowed away in your mind and stole your soul, he knew that the more you allowed them in the bigger the monster became until the 'what ifs' became your life, your every waking moment.

Christine blinked the tears from her eyes and said, 'I don't know how to thank you,'

'We're even,' he said with a small smile, his attempt to lighten the moment. 'You don't need to thank me for this,'

Without another word she flung her arms around him and squeezed him, he felt it as another quiet sob moved her body and he timidly placed a hand on her back and rubbed gently.

'I am forever in your debt,' she said as she regained herself and let him go so that she could tend to Benoit.

'You owe me nothing,' Jack told her, and he meant it.

'He is my world,' she said and turned to look at Jack. 'There is good in you Jack Aldridge,'

He shrugged with a slight snort.

She smiled, 'But there is… because _this,_ you did on instinct. Not to gain anything or win my trust, you dove into that water based on your instinct to save a life,'

He said nothing.

'There is hope for you yet,'


	29. Chapter 29

A/N: Haven't had time to really do anything other than work this week so my apologies if you spot any major mistakes in this that I haven't managed to iron out. I was unsure whether I would be able to update. I don't know if I mentioned but I was promoted at work and now seem to get time only intermittently to write. I am out of the office a lot too at meetings. So, I'm sorry that the updates are slower and my apologies if the quality drops at all.

More apologies that I haven't been able to reply to people. 

Chapter 29

Christine's treatment of Raoul in the following days had constituted something akin to outright neglect. Deep down she knew that the whole event wasn't entirely his fault and yet she simply could not bring herself to talk to him. She had taken to sleeping in the guest room near the stairs and any attempt at conversation he made with her was met with icy silence.

At times she had opened her mouth to speak to him and then the image of Benoit's tiny, soaking body would fill her mind, putting a stop to any ideas she had of mending the bridge between them. She could feel it crumbling but she felt as though there was little she could do. How she wished that she had someone in America who was a true confidant to her, but with Madame Giry gone, there was no-one she trusted enough with her inner most thoughts.

Over the months she and Raoul had found themselves at odds over his brother and the theatre. She was spending too much time there and what little time she had with Raoul was eaten up by Philippe's antics. They had both tried to make amends and up until the incident with Benoit she still felt that they were strong, even though things had been strained. She could almost understand how Philippe could take priority over her but over _Benoit_?

It was amazing to her how quickly things could change.

She had not seen much of Jack since he had saved her son's life but whenever she did she had an overwhelming urge to thank him. Jack would simply brush off her gratitude with sounds such as, 'Anyone would do the same,' _would they_? And, 'It was nothing,' _but it was_.

Another horrible side effect of what had happened was that she now panicked each and every time Benoit was out of her sight, which made things difficult. She know that she could not spend every waking moment keeping her eyes on him, no matter how hard she tried, and yet she felt that she should. When she was at the theatre she would be gripped in moments of utter dread that she could only overcome by quietly controlling her breathing.

At that moment she could hear Benoit playing his violin in the music room and although Christine felt a twinge of despair every time _she_ thought of the accident, _Benoit_ seemed no worse for the experience.

When the door opened and her husband walked in she felt the usual mixture of confusing emotions. Firstly, she felt disappointment. She was unused to this. Raoul had always been her rock and saviour; there for her when no one else had been. Now that she felt so let down by him she simply did not know how to react to his presence.

The next emotion to surface was usually anger; the anger that he could put Benoit in such danger and, worse still, not even notice until it was too late.

Finally, and somewhat comfortingly, there was still love.

Despite everything, when she saw him, she still felt that familiar twinge of affection that she had always felt whenever he was near. There was a little, tiny flutter on her chest and a moment of forgetful bliss where she felt an urge to smile.

He looked at her and closed the door behind him, 'Can we talk about this?' he asked.

It seemed such a simple question and yet it was loaded. Would talking about it help at that moment? Was she still so angry that she could not hear his words? That her stubbornness would overtake? Could it make things worse?

Slowly she nodded, knowing deep inside that they could not go on ignoring each other. Knowing that after all these years he deserved at least the _chance_ to explain his actions to her.

'I didn't mean to take my eyes off him,' Raoul finally said, after a long period of uncomfortable silence.

She stared up at him as he hovered by the door. 'But you did,'

Raoul sighed and though he suddenly looked drained, he did not sit down, 'I had no idea he had wandered onto the rocks,'

'If you were watching him then you would have,'

'He shouldn't go up there,' Raoul said defensively. 'We told him not to,'

'That doesn't excuse you, Raoul,' she said, angry that he was trying to shift the blame to Benoit.

He shook his head, 'I know, I _know_, I'm just trying to make sense of it,'

Christine swallowed, 'He likes to explore,'

'He usually listens to us,'

'He is a child,' Christine said. 'Sometimes he forgets where he is, what he is doing, it is our responsibility to make sure…'

'I know,' Raoul said, his voice strained. Finally, he slumped into the chair near the door. 'I forget…'

She stared at him, 'What do you forget?'

Raoul again shook his head and his eyes looked tired when they peered back at her, 'That he is so young,'

Christine did not say anything, though she understood. Benoit was not what most would consider a typical child.

'He is just… he's so grown up sometimes,' Raoul explained, but it wasn't necessary. Christine had had these thoughts before. Benoit was so intelligent, so gifted, _so_ capable that it was hard to believe that he was just nine years old and yet that's what he was. They had to remember that because for every book he could quote there was a scrape on his knee and for every note he played, there were tears at bedtime and nightmares and things that people so young cannot really understand.

Things that young boys need their parents for.

'What were you doing?' she asked him finally. The question had been in her mind since the moment it had happened but since then she had felt unable to voice it. She had felt unable to voice anything to him.

When her eyes searched for his, he turned away, unable to meet her gaze. In that instant she knew what had distracted him and felt a new wave of anger ripple through her.

'Philippe,' she said and he didn't deny it.

'I was finding him a seat…'

Christine rolled her eyes. 'You mean you were helping the drunken fool into a chair so that he didn't fall over?'

Raoul slouched slightly.

'Your brother is an _adult_,' Christine told him, unable to contain herself now, even though she knew that no amount of shouting or chastising would change what happened.

'I know,' Raoul said and, at least to his credit, he looked ashamed.

'Benoit is not,' Christine finished.

'I know that,' Raoul said, looking up and meeting her gaze. 'Don't you think I know what could have happened?'

Christine stared but could not find the words within her to speak back.

'I am sorry, I am,' Raoul said, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt. 'I know what I've done, but he is alright, Christine! Can't you see?'

'Yes, I _see_,' Christine snapped. 'No thanks to you,'

Raoul stared, wounded by her words and immediately she was sorry she had said it.

'I never thanked Jack,' Raoul said and his voice sounded as edgy as she thought she had ever heard it.

'I did,' Christine said.

Raoul stood up and stepped towards the door, 'I can't change it, Christine,'

She swallowed again, her throat as dry as the desert.

'I wish I could,' he said. 'I wish it had never happened but I can't change it,'

'I know,' she managed to say.

'I nearly lost my son,' he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. 'Now I feel like I am losing my wife,'

And with that, he left her alone to wonder how everything had become so distorted.

* * *

Rarely did Erik ever feel truly relaxed anyway but the last five days had been the most restless he had felt in years. When Jack had found him, the man had been soaked to the skin and only just able to give a full recollection of what had happened at the de Chagny house.

So worried was Erik about the state of his employee that he started a fire and allowed him to sleep in front of it. He tried to think back but could not recall a single time in his entire life when he had ever done anything even remotely similar.

As Jack had slept fitfully, Erik had sat alone in the drawing room contemplating the information he had been given. He was furious that something terrible had happened to Benoit and even more so because Raoul had not been far from him at the time. Jack had saved Benoit's life and for that Erik believed that he owed him some sort of debt of gratitude.

He planned to repay it.

Jack did not, of course, know that Benoit was Erik's child and yet he had saved the boy anyway. Odd, considering Jack's profession but entirely believable, when you knew as much about him as Erik did.

After waiting nearly a week, he felt as though he could simply wait no longer and had set off on foot along the shore towards the de Chagny house. As he approached he saw that there was only a small lamp burning in the top window and knew instantly that Christine was either home alone or Raoul was sleeping.

It wasn't particularly late but this didn't seem to have any bearing on when the de Chagny brothers slept.

He took up a seat on the bench outside and watched the ocean underneath the rising brightness of the moon, which was taking on a distinctly blue tint. Quietly he sat and waited, listening to the sound of the ocean brushing along the edge of the sandy shore.

He did not wait long.

'I was wondering when you would come,' Christine said but she did not sit next to him. She chose to stand and keep the distance between them.

'I wanted to come immediately,' he told her honestly. 'But assumed that I would not be welcome,'

She stared at him for a moment and he felt the usual tremble in his heart, the one that came every time her eyes were on him. 'He is fine,'

'Yes, Jack told me,'

She turned her face towards the growing moon and it lit the smooth lines of her face with such a gentle hue that for a second he felt breathless.

'He is asleep at the moment,' she said without turning back to him.

'I assumed he would be,'

She wrapped her arms around herself, 'Then you have come to see me,'

He shrugged, 'The boy does not know me,'

She glanced at him, 'I am fine,'

'You are pale,'

She nodded her head slightly, 'Well, I have had a shock,'

Erik said nothing; he simply watched as she stared out over the expanse of the Atlantic. He allowed himself to wonder what she was thinking and he let his eyes linger on the gentle curve where her neck met her shoulder.

'You're always there,' she said and Erik, even with his hearing as sharp as it was, only just caught her words as they were swallowed by the ocean breeze.

She turned to him but her eyes seemed unfocused, '_Jack_… if not for you Jack would not have been there,'

'If I had known what was going to happen, _I_ would have been there,'

She smiled, 'Yes, that would have been interesting,'

Slowly she moved towards him and sat on the bench at his side. There was a small gap between them and Christine was careful not to close it, even when she tilted her body towards him.

'I saw you at Madame Giry's funeral,'

He nodded.

'I was the only one who did,'

'Jack did,'

She laughed, 'I think that perhaps he is your protégée,'

Erik did not reply.

'It is strange without her around,' Christine said, her voice quiet.

Erik felt a small, sharp pain in his chest. 'Yes,'

'Where have you been?'

He glanced at her but she was still facing the ocean. 'What do you mean?'

'I have not spoken to you since the day she … she died,'

'I've been busy,' he said and then added, 'Keeping myself busy,'

'Writing music?' she asked and if he had not known better he could have sworn he caught a note of anticipation in her voice.

'No,'

'Do you?' she asked.

He looked at her and though she did not turn she must have felt him move because she said, 'Write music,'

'Sometimes,'

'And singing…'

'I don't sing, I don't find the time,'

She nodded and said nothing more on the subject. Erik actually felt for a moment that he had actually hurt her but the air around them changed again.

'I should go inside,'

He nodded.

'It's cold,'

Without speaking he removed the cloak from his back and placed it gently around her shoulders, pulling it close around her chin. She took the material from him and as she did, their fingers brushed together and she looked at him.

'I nearly lost him,' she said, her eyes wide and black under the dark sky.

'You didn't,' Erik reminded her but he knew what she was thinking.

Her eyes met his. 'I love him, more than I have ever loved anything,'

'I know,'

He watched as a tear rolled silently down the soft arc of her cheek. 'I had no one to tell, no one to turn to,'

His heart thudded in his chest.

She roughly swiped a second tear away from her face. 'I wanted to see you, can you believe that?'

Again, he said nothing. Whatever he said could not be right, not under these circumstances. His silence was the best he could offer her.

'Raoul… he let me down and Madame Giry is gone, Meg is in France and I have no true friend's here,' she told him. 'So you were the first person to come to mind,'

Abruptly she stood, letting his cloak slip from her shoulders as she moved away from him. 'I need to go inside now,'

Erik stared up at her but did not make a sound as she walked away. When she reached the door to her home she turned to him.

'Do you want to know what the worst thing is?' she asked.

He stood but made no move towards her.

'It is that it wouldn't have mattered one jot if they were here or not,' she said. 'It would not have mattered if I had friend's here, people to talk to, it wouldn't have mattered because I would have still have wanted it to be you,'

He took a step forward but she held her hand up and shook her head, 'You were the only person to never let me down; whenever I needed you, you were there,'

Erik sighed.

'Even now,' she said and left him in the darkness.


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: This is perhaps the longest chapter I have ever written. I wanted the Samantha part here but then couldn't find a natural break later on…

Feedback greatly appreciated on this one… Also, apologies again for not replying to reviews. I'm heading straight out to a meeting now but I will try to find time tomorrow.

Chapter 30

Samantha watched the rehearsals with a certain amount of awe. It was a full costume run through of the entire production and although she had never seen an opera before, she was completely engrossed. The height to which the dancers could climb, the sound the chorus could make as a whole and the glorious tone that was Christine de Chagny's voice.

No wonder Erik was so fond of her.

She had known Erik for a few years after meeting him once in an alley behind one of his small entertainment theatres. It was not the best first impression she had ever made on a man but she was damn sure that it was not the worst either.

Her upbringing had been oddly uneventful and, despite the fact her parents had had very little money, she had been a happy child. She had been reasonably well schooled, her father was an intelligent man and taught her himself, and when she was old enough a chance meeting with a tutor led to free lessons for over a year.

The lifestyle and her parent's love had prepared her well for life but had not prepared her for their untimely deaths when she was young. At this point in her life, she had been courting Jack Aldridge for quite some time and although the man was a rogue, she had cared for him with a depth of affection she had only experienced once since. When her parents died she found herself sinking into a lonely existence and, try as she might, there was no saving her relationship with Jack.

The breaking point came with his increasingly frequent indiscretions. Not with other women, of course, Jack was just about as faithful as they came. It was all the things he did for the new _master_ he had found himself. Jack had always like to call him the boss but she saw him more as his ruler; whatever he told Jack to do was done, without question.

Years after the end of their relationship she had been forced into, for want of a better term, selling herself. She was deeply ashamed to admit it but thinking back it was the only way for her to survive. It was not the easiest life and many of the men were disgusting but because of her beauty, she made her money. On the fateful evening in which she had first met Erik she had taken a _gentleman_ down the alley behind the theatre, hoping that he would be her last client of the night.

He had been rough and, apparently, liked the idea of blood during whatever sick game he was playing. This was one of the many, many pitfalls of this line of work and this time it nearly cost her, her life. Had it not been for Erik's timely appearance it probably would have been the end for her.

She remembered him carrying her into the depths of the cellars in the theatre and cleaning her wounds carefully in absolute silence. It took her a while to regain her senses and when she did she foolishly offered him her services in payment for his valiant rescue. Erik had quietly but firmly told her no and continued patching her up, piece by piece.

She remembered it like it was only yesterday, it was so vivid in her memory.

'Then how do I thank you?' she had asked him, perplexed that a man might do anything without wanting something in return.

He had turned the sharpest, richest blue eyes upon her and asked, 'Why do you do this work?'

Surprised by the question she answered, 'Because it puts food on my table,'

'What is your name?' he asked. Under normal circumstances the whole situation might have worried her but given that the man had just saved her life she, rightly or wrongly, assumed that she was safe with him.

'Samantha,'

'Samantha,' he had said, and then, 'This seems a little beneath you,'

Most people would have been offended by this. _She_ should have been angry at this man, who was making assumptions, who didn't know her, but she found herself fascinated by him. 'Maybe it is,' she had told him.

He turned and pointed to the door, 'Follow the stairs, they will take you back outside,' and then he walked to the other side of the room and began fiddling with what looked like a costume.

She had stared after him for a long moment before asking, 'What is _your_ name?'

He glanced up, 'Erik,'

She considered questioning his need to wear the mask that covered half of his face but there was something about his presence that made her think twice about asking. Instead she shrugged and said, 'Well, thank you for helping me,'

She ached and was sore from where the knife had cut her skin, but Erik had assured her that the wounds were superficial and so long as she kept them clean, she would heal. As she walked to the door she heard his voice behind her, 'Samantha,'

Involuntarily she had gasped at the sound of her name, his voice made it sound like music. Turning to face him she had said, 'Yes?'

'I might have a job for you,' he informed her, his eyes bright even though the room was so very dark. 'If you want it…'

She did not need to be asked twice.

From that day forward she had been what he liked to call his _closer_, meaning that she was the woman he sent in when a man was being difficult to deal with. She rarely failed to close the deal. Erik did not expect her to give herself to these men, only to talk them into things with the unconfirmed promise of more of her to come. Of course, that never happened. Erik always made sure of it.

Occasionally, she would do some spying for him but those jobs were usually left to the more than numerous crooked men in his organisation. She was a legitimate business tool. She did not use blackmail or force, simply her charms.

As she sat in the opera house, nearly an hour after the rehearsals had ended, her thoughts were interrupted by Erik taking the seat to her side.

'Did you enjoy it?' he asked.

'I did,'

His lips curved into what could have been a smile, 'The finer things,'

This time she smiled. 'Indeed,'

'You can end your pursuit of Raoul,'

She nodded, she had expected as much. 'You never really expected him to stray did you?'

Erik shook his head once.

'Shame,' she said, the image of Vicomte de Chagny's chiselled features stirring in her mind. 'He is rather something,'

Erik turned his head slightly and she found that she did not like the look in his eyes.

C_hange of subject._

'So what now, I assume you now have further instructions for me?' she asked, remembering their last conversation.

'I'm trying to bring down the price on a property I am thinking of buying,' he explained. 'I'm having some difficulty talking the owner down to a more reasonable price,'

'And this is where I step in,' she said. She knew. It was not a question.

He handed her a slip of paper. 'That is where the next meeting is, tell him that I am unable to attend but you have my authority to conduct this business on my behalf,'

'Will you be sending someone else?'

Erik nodded. 'I'm not sure who yet, but you will not be alone,'

He always sent someone to watch over her, just in case the businessman in question ever got ideas above his station.

'Would you mind leaving me?' he asked politely. 'Report back to me the following morning, I will be in the office,'

She nodded and began to leave. As she did she read the rest of the piece of paper and the amount she was allowed to offer for the property.

She let out a small whoosh of air from her mouth… ahh, to be _so_ rich!

* * *

The _scarf_.

It was always the scarf she left behind.

Christine grumbled to herself as she made her way back into the theatre and through the dark corridors towards the stage. She asked herself why she even took the blasted thing anywhere with her, especially as she so regularly left it on the coat hook, or on her chair, or in the dressing room...

As she got closer to the stage doors she heard the soft tones of the piano being played. She was surprised that anyone had stayed behind after such a long and arduous rehearsal and so she gently pushed the door open, hoping not to disturb the musician. When she stepped out quietly onto the stage she recognised not only the melody of the song but also the person sitting on the piano stool.

Erik's back was to her and, although she might like to think that he had not heard her open the door, she was not so foolish as the believe that this was actually the case. She had seen him play so many times that she noticed the tension in his back and knew that he had heard the door. She stepped further out of the shadows but he did not stop playing and instead, changed the melody to something even softer.

'How could you possible know that it was me?' she asked, noticing the half eaten apple sitting on the piano top, noticing that his jacket was nowhere to be seen, noticing that the tautness of his shoulders had suddenly relaxed.

'No one I have ever known matches your footfalls on a stage,' he told her as he continued to play faintly.

She could not help but smile and quickly glanced around her for mirrors. There were none, of course, but it was occasionally nice to think of him as human.

'I don't see you here often,' she said and walked towards the piano.

He stopped playing. 'Just because I am not seen, does not mean that I am not here,'

'I know,' she said and glanced at the piano keys. 'Why did you stop?'

He looked up at her, 'I will play if you will sing,'

She almost gave in to a snigger. 'You knew I was coming back,'

This time he smiled at her, 'I saw that you had left your scarf over near the steps,'

She rolled her eyes. 'What should I sing?'

'What would you like to sing?'

'Anything,' she said, her heart suddenly swelling. '_Everything_,'

'Perhaps not all in one night,' Erik suggested and this brought another smile her lips.

Momentarily she was worried at how comfortable she felt in his presence again, how he made her feel like she was the only person that mattered, how he always heard her cries for help, knew what she was thinking and _feeling_... He could read her like a book and after all these years, she began to think that she was slowly learning to read things about him too.

Steadily, he began to play again. A tune she knew and loved, and when her cue came she began to sing. The song was soft and gentle and remained that way for its entirety, yet despite this it was full of emotion. When the song drew in and Erik finished playing, she found his eyes on her and then felt the blush of heat rush into her cheeks.

She felt like she was twenty years old yet again.

'Beautiful,' he said, and added none of his customary criticism. He stood from the bench and took a bite from the apple before placing it back down on the piano lid. It was so casual and normal that she felt taken aback. This was not the Erik she knew and yet it was...

'Don't forget your scarf,'

She nodded.

'How are you?' he asked before she could turn to leave. 'The last time…'

'I'm fine, Erik,'

He stepped towards her. 'Are you sure? You look tired still... no less pale than last week,'

She looked away from him.

'Are you sleeping?'

She swallowed.

'Fitfully,' she replied honestly and wondered why.

'What is on your mind?' he asked and when she turned to face him she found that he was merely inches away from her.

'You know what is on my mind,' she said, irritated and yet unable to turn away.

'Really, Christine, I have no idea,'

'Benoit is on my mind,' she said. 'You and Benoit are all I can think about, how he nearly died, how you are _here_…'

'You still haven't told Raoul,' Erik pointed out.

'No,' she said, though her throat felt so dry that it almost hurt.

'Why?' he asked.

'_Why_?'

He nodded.

'He will take me away from here,' she said. 'I'm enjoying singing,'

'But he will take you away in the end anyway, that is what you told me,' Erik reminded her. 'You will fulfil your contract and leave,'

She stared down at her feet, unable to think straight. She didn't know what was happening to her mind or to her marriage and she knew that not telling Raoul was wrong, but how could she? How could she leave when the Opera was _here_.

Erik spoke again, 'Will you sing somewhere else, perhaps?'

She shook her head, heart pounding.

'Why not?'

She couldn't answer, she couldn't tell him.

'Why did you stop singing, Christine?' he asked, his eyes so intense that they burned. 'I taught you... the least you can do is tell me why you choose to waste your gift,'

'I…' she sighed, she knew that he was right. 'It wasn't the same,'

She felt his eyes on her.

'It didn't feel right without you there,' she finally said and then it was _there_. She had never wanted to admit it to herself, let alone to him, but the reason she had stopped singing was because she could not find the same emotions, the same _passion_ as she could when he was there.

'And now you're prepared to stop again,' he said. It didn't sound like a question.

She sighed.

'I meant it when I told you that I love you still, you know I do Christine,' he said, his head tilting ever so slightly to the right. 'Stay here with me,'

'Erik…' she felt a quiver in her voice and fought it away. 'What about my son… he loves Raoul, I can't do this to him,'

'I am capable of looking after him,' Erik said.

'I know, Erik,' she said. 'I don't doubt that but it would break his heart to be taken away from Raoul… it would break Raoul's heart. I just can't do that,'

'Are you telling me that you don't love me?' he asked as their eyes met. 'Are you saying that even now you don't think that what we have is enough?'

'It is not as simple as that, Erik, real life isn't a fairytale,'

'Believe me,' he said sharply. 'I know that,'

'Marriage is a commitment for life,' Christine said and felt it with all her heart. 'I can't just turn my back on that,'

'You would stay with a man that you don't love out of duty?'

'I _do_ love him,' she said firmly. 'I have always loved him and I am sorry that that has hurt you,'

Erik shook his head, 'Not with your soul, Christine,'

She swallowed, their eyes still fixed on each other, 'I came back to you,'

Erik said nothing.

'You left me,'

'It was for the best,'

'And it isn't now?' she asked.

'No,' he said. 'It isn't,'

'I can't do what you're asking of me,'

'You still don't deny it,' he said.

She stared at him.

He shrugged. 'I will make a deal with you,'

She nodded, waiting.

'If you look me in the eye and tell me that you are not in love with me, I promise you that you will not see me again,'

She opened her mouth to speak, to protest, to tell him but the look in his eyes stopped her. It was a look she had seen from him a hundred times before but had only recently come to recognise. No one, not even Raoul, had ever looked at her with such love, such _adoration_.

_I do not love you_, sat in the back of her mind but never reached the tip of her tongue because she simply could not say it. Erik saw her hesitation and as she opened her mouth she felt his lips touch hers and his strong arms encircle her waist.

Although she did not return his kiss or wrap her arms around him, to her shame, she did not stop him either. When he broke the short, yet sweet, kiss their eyes met in the briefest moment of recognition before he turned, collected his apple and walked away.

She stood stock still, unable to move until the sound of his footsteps vanished from the auditorium. When the door at the back of the theatre finally clicked shut she took a deep breath and turned to the stage exit.

She wanted to forget this but it was no use because as she turned she was stunned to see Philippe there, in the doorway, his eyes fixed on her. They stood for a very long time simply staring at each other. Philippe was open mouthed, as if he were about to say something yet could not find the words and Christine was completely still, heart now sinking deeper into the pit of her stomach. It was a long, tense moment before either of them moved.

It was Philippe who finally did, stepping out of the shadow of the doorway and into the dim light of the stage.

They stood barely feet away from each other and at that moment Christine felt deeply ashamed.

Philippe broke the silence, 'You love him,'

It was not what Christine had expected from him. Far from it, in fact. She had expected some snide remark and then the threats, many of which she thoroughly deserved.

She still had the tingle of Erik's stubble on her lips and she still tasted the apple from his mouth. If ever there had been a time when she had been truly speechless and truly deserving of her brother in law's scorn; this was it.

Philippe stared at her and she could not answer him for fear that she might actually tell him the truth.

If she even knew what that was herself.

When she did not respond he released a small sigh. 'I see it,'

Christine squeezed her eyes closed for a second. It was almost a moment of childishness, a flash back to her naivety. She had hoped that on blinking them back open again Philippe might somehow be gone and this might not have happened.

He wasn't gone.

It _was_ happening.

'Raoul doesn't know that he is here, I assume?' Philippe said. It was a half statement and a half question but Christine was surprised to find no malice in her brother in law's tone.

She managed to shake her head.

'Is he our elusive Monsieur Schwarz?' Philippe asked and Christine was momentarily stunned. Conversations with Philippe had always been strained but lately, due to his drinking, they had been virtually impossible. The man standing in front of her now was speaking as though they had been friends for years, as though there was no drinking and no history.

She nodded.

'How long have you known?' he asked.

These were all questions of which the answers would turn her into what he had always suspected that she was or would become and yet there was no glee in his tone, no note of threat.

'Since opening night,' she lied but she could not tell him about the ball. She could not tell him about the night that Raoul was poisoned and sent home, and strangely, she did not want him to know the ways in which Jack had betrayed him. She felt oddly protective of them both.

Philippe locked her eyes with him, 'Why didn't you leave?'

'Money,' she managed to croak. 'Music…'

'Love,' Philippe added.

Christine shook her head and yet it now seemed almost impossible to deny it. She could lie all she wanted, she had become too bloody good at it, and yet it was useless now because he had _seen_.

He smiled, 'I'm not blind,'

Christine remained silent because she felt that her voice would divulge more than she wanted, in a treacherous act of honesty.

'The way he looks at you,' Philippe said quietly. 'Perhaps he isn't such a monster after all,'

Christine blinked, surprised. Philippe read the look on her face as though she was an open book and he managed another smile.

'Anyone who can look at someone else with such adoration cannot be entirely written off,' Philippe shrugged.

'No,' she somehow said.

'And you…'

'Don't…'

'You have never looked at Raoul that way, Christine,' Philippe pointed out and though she wanted to deny it she knew that it was true.

'I love Raoul,' she said, and it was the truth.

Philippe nodded but said nothing. The silence that followed was as painful as it was astonishing. Here stood two people who, not for one day since they had known each other, had ever had a civil conversation, were now almost having one in the face of an undeniable disloyalty.

She swallowed, trying to wet her mouth, 'I do, you must know that,'

'I know,' he finally said and when she looked in his eyes again she saw only sadness. 'It is not the same though, is it? It doesn't feel the same,'

She stared at him in utter astonishment. 'How…'

'I have loved,' he said and almost let out a laugh. 'You look at me like that but it is true. Philippe de Chagny, utter cad, has loved,'

She nor Raoul had ever known of any love in his life, not in France nor America but now looking at him she saw that he was telling her the truth. 'Who?'

'Who is unimportant,' he explained. 'She is gone now,'

'Gone?' she asked, feeling a flutter of sorrow in her heart. She knew what he would say before the words even arrived.

'Dead,' he said and in that second she could have sworn she saw the glassiness of tears, ever so briefly, in his eyes. 'Paris…'

'But you were courting that landowner's daughter… _Monique_…'

This time he did laugh but it was completely devoid of any humour. 'Yes, I was doing what was expected…'

'And then we moved to America,' she said the realisation suddenly hitting her. The move, the drinking, the wasting of money… the _recklessness_… the lack of care for anything… _anymore_.

'I loved her,' Philippe told her, with a sadness that Christine felt in her very own veins. It trembled from him and found her and she shook too with his pain.

'I am sorry,' she managed to say and was surprised to find that she meant it with all of her heart.

He looked at her, eyes as sober and clear as she had seen them in years, and asked. 'Where do we go from here?'

She swallowed, 'Will you tell Raoul?'

Philippe shook his head, 'It is not my secret to tell,'

She looked down at her hands, knowing that now the inevitable must happen. She chuckled to herself, 'I have managed to prove you right, haven't I?'

Philippe smiled, 'Not really. I never expected it to be you to come to your senses about the marriage,'

She was surprised by the statement but did not have time to say so. He turned his back to her and walked to the stage door. 'Christine,' he called back.

'Yes?' she asked.

'I don't want Raoul to find out on his own,' he said. 'I won't tell him but I really think that you ought to,'

And with that parting sentiment, he was gone.


	31. Chapter 31

A/N: Thank you all so much for the great reviews. I sent some replies on Wednesday and will hopefully be able to reply to the others now. I had predicted that there would be 36 chapters in this (37 if you include the alternate ending). I am now thinking I may need to write one more to go before the two ending chapters, otherwise the ending may be too abrupt. I will know when I have finished writing chapter 35 if this is the case. 

I really hope that you all like this chapter. I'm trying to make things as real as possible. Christine may love Erik but she had responsibilities, just like the rest of us. I want to reiterate that I will not say whether this will be R/C, E/C or neither... I never do but encourage you to stay until the end ... 

So, on we go:

**Chapter 31**

'You're home early,' Raoul said to her as she slid into the chair nearest the patio. The sun was glorious through the window and, despite the chill in the air, it warmed her back. Benoit was sitting, with his feet curled up underneath him, next to Raoul, who was resting his back against the wall, watching as Benoit created structures with wooden blocks.

'I wanted to see my boys,' she said and felt a vice like grip around her heart. All thoughts of Benoit's accident all but vanished as she looked on.

Raoul smiled up at her and she found herself bathed in the rare yet tender moment of family peace. Her husband had not been home much recently and neither had she, poor Benoit spent larger and larger amounts of time drifting from theatre to lesson to theatre without both parents around at the same time.

Benoit busily constructed a bridge and Raoul _accidently_ on purpose knocked it down, sending her son into fits of giggles. 'Papa!' he said, feigning anger. Raoul leapt at him and tickled his sides until he squealed and begged to be released. Christine found herself laughing along with their antics, content to sit and watch them.

Almost without them noticing, darkness fell into the room and night time came knocking. Helen arrived to prepare dinner and their family harmony was shattered, perhaps forever. Sitting there watching as Benoit cleared away his toys and Raoul rearranged the furniture she wondered if she would ever be privy to such a moment again.

The smell of cooking began to waft through to the family room and Benoit disappeared to pack his toys away and change his clothes. After setting the chairs back correctly, Raoul took a seat on the settee next to her and placed a warm hand on her leg, a gesture of love, of friendship, of everything he had always been to her. It was intimate and gentle.

'Are you alright?' he asked, his eyes sparkling in the low lamplight. She wondered at the beauty therein and was forced to think of Erik. How different both men were and how, it seemed, she loved them both all the same.

For Raoul's soft skin, there were Erik's strong hands. For Raoul's slim frame there were Erik's broad shoulders. For Raoul's romantic nature there was Erik's courage. Raoul's dark eyes to Erik's blue...

She loved them both, she realised, but differently.

Her love for Raoul was youthful and embedded within her; they had known each other for so many years that they could finish each other's sentences. A familiarity that bred all sorts of complacency and yet one she would miss desperately if it were gone.

Her love for Erik was dark but powerful, it was the type of love that you felt only once in your life and she knew that it was the type of love that could destroy you, if you weren't careful. It could consume you.

If Raoul was her heart, then Erik was her soul.

To Raoul she would always be the girl whose red scarf he had rescued from the sea, always the young and flippant girl that he had always loved, the one he needed to protect. To Erik she was the earth. She was the moon and sky, the ocean and land, she was everything all rolled into one. She knew it. Erik would always protect her but never feel that she was so wounded that she could not do this herself.

Raoul was her husband.

Erik; the father of her son.

She looked again into Raoul's eyes and shook her head. 'We need to talk,'

And even as the words came from her mouth she remembered the thought that nothing good ever came from that phrase. The concern shining in Raoul's eyes told her that he was thinking exactly the same thing.

'What is wrong?' he asked.

'Can we do it after dinner, though?'

His eyes pleaded with her but he nodded his head. 'You mean when Benoit is in bed?'

She gritted her teeth and said, 'Yes,'

She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard, the colour leaving his face momentarily before Benoit crashed back into the room, ending the moment of uncertainty; at least temporarily. Her son squeezed into the small gap between them on the settee and snuggled into the warmth of their bodies. Without a thought, both wrapped an arm around his shoulders and Christine placed gentle kisses in his hair.

'My tutor says I am too advanced now,' Benoit said out of nowhere, his little chest puffed up with pride.

Christine's eyes met with Raoul's over his head and she realised that neither one of them was at all surprised.

'Mrs Kelly?' Christine asked.

Benoit glanced up at him and frowned. 'Noooo,'

'Then your music tutor?' Raoul said.

Benoit nodded as Helen began to bring trays of food through to the table.

'Then we will find you another one,' Raoul smiled and ruffled his hair.

A moment of stark realisation hit Christine as it occurred to her that the only tutor likely to be good enough for Benoit was Erik. She stood abruptly and went to the table, taking her seat to the right of the head of the table. She took a breath and looked over at her family. Benoit looked pleasantly oblivious but Raoul's eyes were brimming with concern and guilt pounded in her heart.

Gently, Raoul ushered Benoit to the table and listened as he talked about schooling, music and the beach. Her husband listened as though he had never heard anything more interesting or more wonderful in all of his life, and the guilt within her was utterly compounded.

At the table they ate what to most would seem a normal family meal with small talk and compliments to the chef, but deep down there was the underlying current of insecurity. No one really knew what was going on, least of all Christine herself.

When the plates were cleared away, Benoit was in his room and Helen had left for the night, husband and wife stood alone in the parlour room with the air of apprehension hanging between them. Raoul poured a small glass of light coloured whiskey and offered her a sherry.

She politely declined, feeling her stomach turn over as she watched him sit near the fire.

'What is it?' he asked, sipping the whiskey before placing it on the wooden coaster they had bought in Italy.

She took a breath. 'It's Schwarz,'

Momentarily Raoul looked relieved but then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished again and was replaced with anxiety. 'Have you met him? What has he done to you?'

Christine felt the all too familiar pang of shame. 'Nothing...'

'Has he finally decided to show his face?' Raoul asked and she could feel the weight of his gaze bearing down on her.

She turned her face and gazed out onto the early night. Stars sparkled beautifully over the ocean and the moon beamed a silver shimmer along the edge of the waves, it was a complete contrast to the mood in the room and she sighed, but could not bear to look at her husband.

'Christine...' he said, his voice was gentle and she could feel the firm beat of her treacherous heart.

'It's him,' she said quietly.

Raoul was silent. The mantel clock made a chime signalling another hour had past but she refused to turn, she could not see his face, his eyes, she did not want to see his expression.

'Him...' Raoul said, a moment of uncertainty, perhaps even hope, entering his tone.

She nodded, realising that her hand was balled into a fist at her side, clutching the edge of her dress.

She heard Raoul stand and move towards her, his hands touched her shoulders and she flinched away, not because she did not want his touch but because she did not deserve it. When she finally turned to him his hands were still outstretched and the hurt was clear in his eyes.

'Have you seen him?' Raoul asked softly.

She nodded.

His eyes found hers. 'When?'

And _there_ was the question she had been dreading.

She opened her mouth to respond but no words came out, she could not find them, and there was no excuse now, only the truth and she simply did not know how to tell him.

Eventually, it was Raoul who broke the silence, 'How long have you known?'

'Opening night,' she managed because she could not tell him about the ball.

Raoul was visibly shaken but he took a breath, calmed himself and asked, 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I was afraid,' she replied honestly.

His eyes widened slightly, 'Of me?'

She shook her head.

'Of _him_?'

'No,' she said quietly. 'Of not singing,'

Raoul sighed and turned towards the window, his profile lit by the vividness of the moon.

'I have not stopped you from singing,' he said quietly and Christine watched the lips of his reflection move on the glass.

She swallowed.

He turned to her. 'I have not encouraged you either,'

When their eyes met she sighed.

'We have to leave,' Raoul said. 'You know that, don't you?'

Christine stared at him, her words once again lost.

'Christine...'

'I'm enjoying singing,'

'Or being near him...'

'Raoul...

He held out his hand in front of him, palm up and towards her, telling her to stop and then shook his head, 'It was always more important,'

She said nothing because she did not know what to say. She wasn't used to him raising his voice, rarely did he ever get angry and especially not with her, and she simply did not know how to deal with it. It was what she deserved, she knew, and though they had drifted apart over the last few months she did love him all the same. It was painful to see him so hurt and angry.

'Why must you _always_ sing for him?' Raoul asked, his voice louder than she thought she had ever heard it.

'It isn't about him,' Christine said and wondered if that was the truth.

Raoul pinched the bridge of his nose. 'I'm telling Philippe that we're leaving and then I am booking us on to the next boat back to France,'

'Let me finish the contract,' she said. 'And then we will go, with the money that we're owed,'

Raoul began to pace the floor, his head shaking as he did, 'You can't be serious?'

She nodded, 'We only have a few months left,'

'Christine, listen to yourself,' Raoul said.

'What are you afraid of, Raoul?'

'Don't you remember what he did?'

'I remember everything,'

'Than we need to leave,'

'I can't,' she said. 'At the end of the contract we will all leave as a family...'

'He is _dangerous_,'

'That isn't what this is about though, is it?'

Raoul turned his face away from her. 'I need to think,'

She had so much more to tell him, she wanted it all out in the open but now was not the time. Suddenly, she felt like honesty might be the only way to save her faltering marriage.

Looking at the confusion, the pain on his face, though she wondered how she would ever tell him the whole truth and yet she knew that she had to. Not because of Philippe but because he _deserved_ the truth from her.

After all of these years, all of the lies, the shame, the guilt, he deserved to know. Philippe was right, she did love Erik and was past denying that to herself but he was wrong about the depth of her feelings for Raoul. She was determined that nothing would come between them but she needed to finish the contract. She needed it for herself, for her family and yes, she admitted, for Erik too.

Without another word Raoul walked from the room, leaving her alone briefly with her thoughts. She sat near the patio and gazed from the window but it was only a short moment of silence before Raoul burst back in.

'Have you seen Benoit?' he asked, breathless.

She jumped to her feet. 'No... he went to bed,'

'He isn't there,'

She felt a cold shiver of panic roll down her back.

'He isn't upstairs... he isn't down here...' Raoul said, his voice strained. 'I will check the beach and streets; you check the front and theatre,'

'He wouldn't have gone that far...'

'Check anyway,' Raoul said and darted from the room.

* * *

Erik watched as Benoit's fingers played along the cool keys of the orchestra piano. He looked small and pale against the darkness and vastness of the auditorium. Erik stood in silence and listened as the boy lost himself in the music he was playing, whether it was music from memory or from heart Erik did not know but there were no papers, no score from which he played.

He noted the high cheeks and soft complexion of the boy he now knew was his son. He saw the smoothness and softness of his features, the thickness of his dark hair and he was momentarily stunned that something so exquisite could come from someone so hideous.

Suddenly, Benoit stopped playing and turned to the blackness. 'Is there someone there?' he said into the void.

Debating in his own mind Erik finally stepped from the shadows. 'I was listening to you play,'

Benoit smiled without fear and said, 'Hello Monsieur Schwarz,'

'Good evening, Benoit,' Erik said as he moved into the orchestra pit. 'What are you doing here?'

The boy's eyes took on the sheen of sadness as he said, 'I... I'm sorry,'

'What for?' Erik asked, watching Benoit's face.

'Intruding,'

Erik smiled at him, 'You're not intruding,'

Benoit managed a small smile and Erik wondered what had happened back at the de Changy house.

'I'm a little concerned that you are out so late on your own,' Erik told him and it surprised him to realise that he meant it.

Benoit turned his face towards the stage and away from Erik's gaze.

'Perhaps I should take you home,' Erik suggested.

'I don't want to go home,' Benoit said sadly, as he turned to stare down at the piano keys.

Erik felt a pang of something strange in his chest and, unable to recognise it, he asked, 'Why not?'

The boy shrugged his bony shoulders.

'Then perhaps we can play the piano together... until you feel ready to go home?' Erik asked, despite his better judgement. Deep in the back of his mind he knew that this wasn't a good idea, he knew that getting to know the child would not make him feel better and he knew that Christine was probably frantic with worry... _yet_... Benoit looked at him with such light in his eyes, such _enthusiasm_, that Erik simply took a seat on the bench at his side.

'Do you play then?' Benoit asked, his eyes bright.

Erik nodded and pressed his fingers to the keys, tapping out a fast paced yet short melody. Benoit's face lit up like the morning sky and as he beamed at Erik, Erik felt his heart begin to melt. Benoit started to play a soft air and Erik caught him up, playing the low chords while Benoit kept the tune. Engrossed in the moment they both played, both learned, both lost themselves within the music.

Finally, Benoit said, 'Mother and father have been arguing,'

Erik continued to play and did not respond, but he waited.

'It upset me,' he said.

Erik felt the pang again.

'So I came here,'

Erik nodded. _Played_.

'Music makes me feel better,'

'Yes,' Erik said. 'Music always comforts me too,'

'Really?' Benoit asked, his fingers parting from the keys as he turned to face Erik.

Erik too stopped and turned, with a small nod he said, 'Music is food for your soul, it is good for you,'

Benoit nodded and even seemed to understand. 'Have you played the piano for long, Monsieur?'

Erik noted the soft lilt in Benoit's voice and wondered if Christine ever encouraged him to sing. 'All of my life,' he answered.

Benoit grinned, 'Me too,'

Erik began to show Benoit a new technique, teaching him how to run along the keys without the need for pause, how to make it flow. He had no idea how long they sat there like that before Christine burst in and ran to the front of the room.

'Benoit,' she said as she paused at the entrance to the orchestra pit.

The boy looked uncomfortable but Christine ran to him and threw her arms around his small frame, lifting him from the seat and pulling him to her.

When she finally released him she stared into his eyes and said, 'Don't do that!'

Benoit looked down at his feet, which were moving from side to side.

'I was worried, I was...' she turned to Erik, hand on Benoit's shoulder. 'Did you bring him here?'

'Of course not,' he said, surprised by the question, although he knew he really had no right to be.

Benoit tugged her hand. 'I came here... you and papa were fighting,'

Christine looked down at him and touched his cheek. 'Go and find your coat,'

'Don't be angry with Monsieur Schwarz... he asked me to go home...'

'Coat,'

Benoit nodded and disappeared through the side door.

'You should have brought him back,' she said but the anger had vanished from her voice.

'Yes, that would have been interesting,' Erik said, with a small smile. 'Imagine... _Ah, Vicomte, just returning the boy, apologies for that._..'

She glared at him. 'I was worried, Erik,'

'I know,'

'You should have brought him home,' she said but her tone was soft.

'He is home, Christine,' Erik said, reaching for her hand. She allowed him to take it and he felt the warmth of her fingertips in his palm. He lifted it, brought her smooth skin to his lips and kissed her knuckles softly. '_You_ are home,'

She took a sharp breath in, as if steadying herself and then gently took her hand back from him. As she turned he moved up behind her and whispered in her ear, 'Stay,'

As she turned to face him, as she opened her mouth to respond, Benoit came back in, tugging his coat over his shoulders. Christine turned from Erik and moved to her son, helping him into the jacket.

'Say goodbye to Monsieur Schwarz,' Christine said.

Benoit smiled up at him. 'Can I come again?'

Erik opened his mouth to speak but Christine broke in first, 'We will discuss this later,' she said to her son.

'Goodnight Benoit,' Erik said, with a smile. He watched as Christine ushered Benoit off ahead of her and as they approached the exit she turned around. Their eyes found each other across the rows of seats, across the room, across the gap that Erik felt closing between them. No words crossed over the distance at that moment but what was unspoken hung heavily in the night air.

Erik saw her sigh and walk away, and he knew then that one way or another, this was nearly over.

* * *

A/N: Please accept my apologies if you got loads of updates for this - FF is having some issues...


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: Might not seem it and I know some of you probably won't be too impressed with the lack of Erik and Christine in this, but this chapter is pretty important

Please excuse any errors or crazy sentences. The last read through I did of this was around a month ago and I don't have time to do one today (and I won't be able to post tomorrow or Wednesday, so it must go up today)

Hope it isn't too bad.

**Chapter 32**

When Christine and Benoit had arrived home that evening, Raoul had been too relieved to raise the subject of leaving again that night. The following morning he had risen early, earlier than his wife or his son, and quietly washed, dressed, eaten a small breakfast and then left the house.

There were two reasons he felt that he needed to see his brother; that he just wanted to because he was the only friend that Raoul had in New York and that he needed to tell him that the money they had invested was effectively lost. He had found Philippe at his townhouse, sober and wide awake, staring out of the first floor window.

When Raoul had knocked at the door, his brother had waved a hand, gesturing for him to come in but, to Raoul's surprise, had not met him at the steps. After a moments wait Raoul had surrendered and gone upstairs to him.

When he entered the room Philippe swivelled in his seat and smiled at him.

'Good morning,' he said once Raoul sat down next to him.

Raoul frowned, confused, 'What is going on?' he asked, curiosity and, perhaps, concern getting the better of him.

Philippe had turned to him. 'What do you mean?'

'You're just... sitting there, staring out of the window,' Raoul told him and then, just in case his brother hadn't noticed, pointed out, 'It's rather early,'

'I could say the same thing to you,'

Raoul had chosen not to respond to this.

'The view is lovely here and I am thinking,' Philippe explained, although Raoul thought it was hardly an explanation for the vacant look in his eyes. 'I like to look out of the window when I think,'

'Dare I ask what you're thinking?' Raoul had ventured.

Philippe flashed a grin and said, 'I am not totally without my faculties,'

Again, Raoul decided that his best course of action was to say nothing lest he offend his brother, particularly with his mood being as dark as it was. He couldn't get the image of Christine flinching away from his touch out of his mind and he had dreamt all night that the phantom was watching him as he slept.

Unpleasant images plagued him constantly and though he tried to shake them they maintained a firm grip on his sanity. He wondered how much longer he could go on with the thoughts swirling in his troubled mind, it had been only one night and already he felt exhausted.

'So,' Philippe said, finally standing and breaking into Raoul's thoughts. 'Why are you here at this ungodly hour?'

Raoul checked his pocket watch, 'It is nearly nine,'

Philippe had laughed, 'Bloody hell, I thought it was closer to eleven,'

If the comment was intended to make Raoul laugh, it certainly worked and he shook his head as he too stood to follow Philippe downstairs.

'Why are you here?' Philippe asked as they took seats in the living room, suddenly the air around them had become very serious.

'Christine and I are thinking of leaving,' Raoul had told him.

Philippe's eyebrows arched, 'When?'

'As soon as I can get us onto a comfortable boat and out of here,'

'This is very sudden,'

Raoul didn't really know what to say. He wasn't sure if he should tell Philippe about the phantom or not, or even if Philippe would take him seriously if he did. In the end, he chose to keep it to himself. He figured that Philippe was in no danger from him and so he had said, 'I am not comfortable here,'

'And the contract with the theatre?' Philippe asked. It was a reasonable question, given that they had invested heavily in the Opera House's conception and with Christine backing out they would lose their investment.

'I'm afraid we must break it,'

Philippe had stared at him for what seemed an eternity before saying, 'Can I help?'

It was strange because, although the words came out and they sounded genuine, something in Philippe's eyes was saying something different. Raoul could not pinpoint it, he did not know what exactly he was seeing, but he felt as though his brother already knew that there was _nothing_ he could do to help.

'No,'

'When are you going to enquire about passage?' Philippe asked.

Raoul had sighed. 'Tomorrow,'

And although that was what he had intended, it was not exactly what he did. That conversation with Philippe had happened two days ago and although Raoul had thought it an easy decision, when push finally came to shove, he actually did not know what to do. On three separate occasions he had gone to the port and on each occasion had turned around and left before seeking out tickets.

He _wanted_ to leave, that was not the problem, no, the issue was that he knew how desperately Christine wanted to sing. Try as he might, he could never give Christine quite the right amount of support to continue her music. He tried, he cheered, he escorted her to rehearsals and he watched the shows but for her, that was not quite enough. He did not understand music the way she did, the way she could, and although it had never really come between them it had always hung there.

When she was pregnant and Benoit was born she had stopped singing for nearly two years. After this she was given the lead in a new opera in Paris and her return was greeted with excitement and anticipation from all of Paris... and yet when she sang, she did not sound quite the same.

Yes, she found the correct notes, she found the right tunes, she was pitch perfect but there was always something missing. Raoul often wondered, still did, if it was his lack of total support and understanding that was the problem.

Only a year and a half after she started singing again she stopped. Raoul, of course, had asked her why but her answer had been simple; she did not enjoy it anymore.

He was starting to realise what this meant.

Now in America she sang again but it was not just singing. He almost wished that it was, he almost wished now that it was the same as before, with her voice perfect but her enjoyment gone. It wasn't though, and now he knew why. When she sang, no, it wasn't just singing anymore... it was soaring, flying, rising above them all, above the whole world, the _universe_.

He sighed as he approached the clerk, decision made.

'Excuse me,' he said. The young brown haired man peered up at him over the top of the papers.

'Yes?' he asked.

_Polite_.

'I was wondering if you might be able to tell me when the next available boat from here to Portsmouth, England is?' he asked, struggling slightly with the English but getting it just about right.

The man glanced down at some papers, rifled through them and said. 'Two days is the next one with free rooms...'

'There will be three of us,' Raoul told him. 'Me... of course... my wife and my son,'

The man stared down at his paper and nodded, 'We can accommodate you,'

Raoul watched the man begin to write some information down and then, when he glanced up, Raoul asked, 'What is the price?'

'You all want first class?'

Raoul nodded, wondering quite how they would afford it, even with Christine's savings.

'You want a parlour suite?'

Knowing the likely extortionate cost Raoul shook his head.

'Sure... so a first class berth then,' the man said, making more notes. He looked up and said, 'Hundred dollars per person,'

'Including my son?'

The man shook his head. 'No cost,'

'Can I take my tickets now?' Raoul asked, eager to get away. Somehow he felt grubby. He had not spoken to Christine properly since that night and he was feeling not only guilty, but equally, he was afraid. When he searched his mind he could not decide quite what he was afraid of. They had been in New York for almost three years, they had been part of the theatre for around nine months and the phantom had left nothing even akin to a threat.

Still, the uneasiness was settled well and truly in his turning stomach and he could not rest. Tickets in hand he found a cab back to the house and went inside to wait for Christine to return.

* * *

It was growing dark and as Jack entered the old building he got the weird feeling that there was actually no one there at all. He had been sent to oversee the closing of a deal that Erik had been trying to agree for a while. It was rare for Jack to be sent on these sort of tasks but on the odd occasion Erik would like to vary things. Jack thought this was probably to keep him on his toes but you never really did know with Erik Schwarz.

The door clunked shut behind him and there was horrible echo in the dark room. He stopped inside and looked around him, allowing his eyes to adjust until he saw the flicker of a light under the door opposite him. Steadily he walked forward and pushed the door open with his fingertips before cautiously proceeding inside. At first glance it didn't seem that there was anyone there but on a second glance around Jack spotted a woman's scarf over the back of a chair.

He took a seat and waited.

The room was warm and light, it smelled of women's perfume and he couldn't help but close his eyes and take it in. He spent so little time around women these days and had long ago stopped considering Christine a women, he was even allowing himself to start viewing her as, dare he think it, a friend.

The sound of soft footsteps brought him back to reality and his eyes flew open. When they focused he felt his heart stop dead in his chest and all of the air he reserved for breathing leave his lungs.

Standing in the doorway was Samantha; beautiful as ever. If he was surprised then he would have to say, by the look on her face, that she was utterly stunned. She had frozen on the spot, one hand on the door handle the other hanging by her side. Her eyes were wide and her lips parted slightly; Jack could just make out the movement of her chest as she breathed.

'Samantha,' he said, but the sound was strange. It did not sound like his voice at all, more that of a mouse than of a man.

She blinked her eyes. 'Jack,'

He felt his throat tighten so that breathing was near impossible. 'What are you... why are you here?'

'I was about to ask you the same thing,' she said, her voice just as evocative as he had always found it.

'I'm working,' Jack said, trying to take discreet yet deep breaths.

With those words Samantha's shoulder slumped slightly, and her posture changed completely. She no longer looked shocked or, for that matter, confident. She looked deflated.

'For Erik,' Samantha said to him. It was not a question.

He nodded and tried, unsuccessfully, to force a smile. 'You must be the closer,'

She, too, nodded her head. 'You would think I might have guessed,'

'Guessed...'

'That you worked for him,'

'I never mentioned him by name,' Jack said but wasn't really sure why. It wasn't the conversation that Jack would have expected to have with Samantha nor was it the conversation that he wanted. Far from it, in fact.

She huffed and closed the door behind her, stepping into the room. 'No, you didn't, but he _controlled_ you, it seems obvious now,'

Jack opened his mouth to deny the accusation but thought better of it. After all, how could he? He had loved Samantha since they were children and even now the sight of her made him tremble. They had not spoken for years and though Jack's employment by Erik had been a catalyst to the end of the relationship, it certainly had not been the only problem.

Childhood had not been easy for Jack but he had found an escape in the dangerous world of crime. Samantha loved him all the same and, if nothing else, she knew that he would always protect her and always love her, even if he had sometimes had a peculiar way of showing it. Samantha's parents had died when she was fairly young and Jack had taken it upon himself to be her stand in guardian, someone she could turn to and someone who could love her as unconditionally as they had.

What Jack didn't realise was that unconditional was a desperately hard thing to achieve, and though he had basically succeeded in giving it to her, she had not been able to return it. If Jack was forced to speak of it, he would say that the two of them had, had a mostly happy relationship but his work had been irregular and money was often tight.

This alone would cause arguments and then, angry, he would go out, fight, cause trouble... just simply do things that society could not accept. That she could not accept. Slowly, Samantha became discontented and, to his everlasting shame, Jack barely even noticed. He had been so wrapped up in his own world, in his own issues, that he could not see the restlessness she found herself smothered by.

When the day came that Erik offered him employment he jumped at the chance, it was well paid and he would finally be able to provide a life for them both. He knew from the start the sort of things that the job might entail and yet his ignorance and the need for money had driven him forward. It was not a greedy need, at least _that_ he could say with confidence, it was a need born of love and hunger.

Samantha, however, was not happy and in hindsight he knew that he should have recognised the symptoms earlier. He didn't, though, and so his work continued. He would be out all night sometimes and at other odd hours, sometimes when she had needed him the most. The money and work was good, Jack never complained and neither did he notice the growing distance between himself and Samantha.

When it ended, it ended badly. Samantha was threatened by a brute that Jack had had dealings with years before and although Jack stepped in, the damage was already done. She had not been physically harmed but the memories, the fear, the gap between them and his reluctance to change had ultimately been the end.

She had screamed at him, her fists flying at his chest in panic and rage, and then she simply left.

He had not heard much about her for a couple of years after that but then she re-emerged in a new house, the one he had sat outside so solemnly those months ago, and what seemed a new life. Knowing that he was not welcome anywhere she was, he had never approached her, never dared even be on the same street sometimes. He was not afraid of her, only afraid of the effect she had on him, the effect of her ill feeling.

'I needed a job,' was all Jack could say.

Jack expected anger but instead she nodded, 'I know,'

He blinked.

'I doubt there is a client, you know?' Samantha said to him.

Jack had been thinking along similar lines himself. 'Erik's not so subtly way of telling us he knows all,'

Samantha smiled and it warmed Jack all the way through, 'Maybe he wanted us to talk?'

'Maybe both,'

She nodded.

'Are we going to?' Jack asked.

She glanced at him.

'Talk?'

She nodded again, 'But not tonight,'

Jack felt dejected but said, 'Maybe on Friday? I could buy you dinner?'

She stared at him and for a long moment Jack had the dreadful instinct that she was about to say no, but then she smiled at him, 'It wouldn't hurt us to be friends again, would it?'

Jack smiled back and though..._No, it definitely would not._


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: THIS IS AN ADDITION AFTER ORIGINAL POSTING: I have now disabled anonymous reviews, which saddens me a little. I have done this because I have absolutely no way of responding to criticisms directly and think it is a cowardly way of leaving them. To the person calling themselves 'Helena' whose review has now been deleted: Really, does the lack of a full stop detract so badly that you still felt the need to read the whole thing and THEN leave a review criticising it? Private message would have been the place to do this. Or were you just trying to make yourself look more intelligent than everyone else. If you are so knowledgeable, please feel free to post your own stories along with your own ID.

Apologies to people who usually review anonymously and those who do not wish to see my ranting, I don't do it very often but I made it pretty clear from the outset that any flames would be deleted.

Worried about this one...

_You said what goes around comes around,_

_Well, I'm floating in the darkness waiting to be found,_

_So why didn't you tell me that I could be waiting such a long, long time?_

_Quietly sinking in that you're not lying by my side,_

_And I'm haunted, there's still a part of me that's haunted,_

_By the only one I've ever wanted,_

_Everyone has their ghosts,_

_And when you warned me,_

_I couldn't say you didn't warn me,_

_Maybe I'm afraid cos I know, I know,_

_That's what I need the most,_

_I've gotta to let you go, - __Haunted, Ben Montague_

**Chapter 33**

It was late by the time Christine arrived home from the theatre. Jack had accompanied her to the house in the carriage but she had not felt talkative and Jack knew well enough not to push her. Instead, they sat in a relatively comfortable silence until the cab pulled up at her house. The weather was cool but dry, the driest it had been in weeks, and when she stepped out Jack looked her in the eye and asked, 'Is everything alright?'

_No_, she thought, _nothing is right_, but she had simply nodded her head at him, feebly keeping her emotions to herself. The house was quiet, Benoit was no doubt fast asleep and their neighbour, who had been taking care of Benoit that evening, was probably sleeping in the guest room too. Christine left her shawl on and ascended the stairs, quietly opening her son's door when she got to the end of the corridor.

She looked over him, curled up beneath the thick quilt, his breathing soft and even, and she felt her heart jump to her throat. Gently she reached out and touched his hair, being careful not to wake him and yet needing to feel his realness under her hands, to know that he was safe. She placed a kiss on his forehead and smiled down at him, her heart swelling with pride as he sighed in his slumber.

Lately, it was becoming more and more of a struggle to leave him although she did not truly know why. It seemed that when she was unsettled, she needed Benoit all the more, and that was frightening to her. It was not her place to need him; it was up to her to care for him, up to her to be there for _him_, and yet whenever she felt low it was he who saved her, even though he was too young to know it.

When she did finally leave the room she clicked the door closed as softly as she could behind her and made her way down the stairs and then into Raoul's drawing room in the hope that he might be home. The room was dark, though, and she lit the oil lamp at his desk so that she could see. There were no brandy glasses or other signs that anyone had been there and so she assumed that he was had not returned from Philippe's house yet.

Things had been strained, she knew that, and the past few days had gone by with barely a word passing between them but he was her husband and she was determined to make amends. She had resolved that when she spoke to him she would try to convince him to see their contract out. He would not like it, she knew, but she was enjoying her singing so much and the money from the full contract would set them back up nicely in Europe.

As much as she hated to admit it to herself, she would miss Erik and she briefly wondered what truly drew her to the theatre; the music or him. Either way, it would make no difference. Her marriage meant the world to her and as painful as she would find it to leave at the end of the twelve months, she knew that she must.

She rolled her eyes at the sight of the mess of papers strewn across Raoul's desk and it brought a smile to her face. Raoul was impeccably neat, his hair always smartly trimmed, he was cleanly shaven, his clothes were pressed and fresh but when it came to paperwork he was impossible. She loved that contrast about him and she remembered all of the light hearted quibbles they had had about his letters.

She longed to have those moments back.

Out of habit she began to neaten them up and place them in what seemed like appropriate piles for their purpose. As she lifted another stack, an envelope spilled its contents and she was forced to ferret around on the floor for it. When she had finally found the papers she stood up and held them in her hands.

She was about to slip them back into the envelope when she noticed the stamp on the top.

They were tickets.

She turned them over and read the details with a sinking heart. The tickets were for passage to England in a little over a day's time for two adults and a child, first class. She stared at them in her palm for what felt like eternity before she sighed and pressed them back into the envelope. When she placed it back on the desk she felt an anger overcome her, one that was so fierce she could not stand still.

It wasn't Raoul's decision to take them to Europe that angered her so, it was the fact that he had done it behind her back. They had not made a decision those nights ago and they had barely spoken since, yet he had gone against her wishes and purchased their progress back towards France. Suddenly her breathing was not quite normal and she could not bear to be in the house any longer, she was suffocating.

Knowing that Benoit was safe she left the house and was surprised to find Jack and the carriage still waiting outside.

'I was about to come inside,' Jack told her as she climbed into the back.

She stared at him.

'I was worried,' he explained. 'You haven't seemed yourself,'

She turned her face away. 'Can you take me to the theatre?'

Jack signalled to the driver and the carriage moved away with a clunk before settling into a regular rock as they rumbled through the New York streets. Jack was quiet for a while but she could feel his eyes on her, feel his curiosity on her shoulders.

She turned to him, 'The theatre is quiet at this time,'

Jack simply nodded, no questions. She could not work out why she was so irritated by this. Did she really want his questions, his curiosity, his _confidence_ after spending all this time avoiding it?

'You won't wait for me outside,' Christine said as the carriage slowed to a halt outside the entrance.

'I'd prefer to...'

She shook her head, stopping him mid sentence. 'Please...'

'I think Erik is at home Christine, I'd really prefer it if you weren't here alone,' Jack explained, his eyes fixed to hers.

'That's exactly the point though,' Christine said and a sigh escaped before she could stop it. 'I _want_ to be alone and this is the safest, quietest place I know,'

'If something happens...'

She smiled at him, 'Nothing will happen,'

Jack shrugged. 'Alright then,'

She climbed out of the carriage without his help and closed the small door behind her. Jack hung his head out of the window and said, 'The stage hands will probably still be here,'

'I know them,'

Jack shrugged again, nodded his head at her and then prompted the driver to move off. Christine stood at the edge of the uneven road and watched as the black outline of the cab moved away into the distance and the sound of hooves slowly vanished. She desperately needed to think, she needed to order her mind and her heart so that she could make sense of what was happening.

Inside, the theatre was dark but there were some lamps still lit and so she wandered through into the auditorium. She glanced around her and chose a seat at the back, under the balcony and immersed in shadow. She settled into the chair and wondered how she would find time to tell Erik that she was leaving.

For a moment, she even wondered if he already knew, he seemed to always know what was going on.

She rested her head back and thought of how different her life had been for the last nine months. Christmas was approaching and she had genuinely been looking forward to it this year. It was the first time in many. Singing again, with Erik there, had been a revelation. She knew she had missed it but she had no idea quite how much.

In New York her reputation had grown, she was becoming nearly as famous as she had been in France, and she realised how she had missed the crowds and recognition. Music allowed her to be... well... _her_.

She still hated to admit it to herself but things were never the same without Erik at her side when she sang. Whenever he was there something came from within, something deep, almost mystical, made its way to the surface and for breathtaking moments she was flying, _soaring_ above it all.

_Nothing_ could touch her.

And what of Erik? She could not imagine him taking the news well and yet he had been so very different. He was still powerful, intense, dark... but he was also a man. It was something she had struggled to see him as before but now he was human to her and far from making him less magical it had the opposite effect on her.

He seemed even more extraordinary than before.

She had grown to love New York, Benoit had friends, an education and a home, a future. She was singing and Erik was there...

_Raoul_...how he had loved her all these years. It was not as intense, not as sensual as the way Erik did but it was real, solid, warm and rich. She loved him for being so kind... so gentle, for being the man he had always promised to be when they were children. She loved him for standing by her, for protecting and loving her, for never changing in spite of the adversities they had faced.

A sob caught in her throat and before she knew it, there were tears flowing down her cheeks. She knew what she had to do and it was breaking her heart.

* * *

Erik stepped quietly into the theatre and listened carefully for the sounds of people moving or talking but all he heard was the gentle hum of Christine crying. Even her tears were like music to him.

Jack had gone straight to Erik's home after leaving Christine at the theatre and told him where she was. Erik had not hesitated and taken the cab Jack was using to get to her as quickly as he could.

In the auditorium, he looked around him and caught a glimpse of her shadow, curled into a chair on the back row. As he moved towards her in the darkness he saw her stir and then look up, directly at him.

He stepped into her row and simply said, as softly as he had ever spoken, 'Christine,'

He loved the feel of her name on his tongue and the way it sounded when he spoke it. The crispness and softness in equal measures, so captivating he let the sound linger around him whenever he said it. He knew that she felt it to.

She did not respond to him but when he held his hand out to her she took it without question. She followed him back down along the aisle, around the stage and to the usually locked exit at the rear of the building. It was dark but he could see clearly and he squeezed her hand as he guided her through the blackness. She said nothing to him as he opened the door and stepped into the cold. As he led her up the stairs, she made no murmur and when they arrived at the roof, he turned to face her, keeping her hand in his.

As their eyes met another tear spilled onto her cheek and he reached out to brush it away with his fingertip, feeling the velvet of her skin beneath his touch. As he began to move away she stopped him by placing her hand over his and pressing it to her face, leaning into it. Her warmth penetrated his cold fingers and he felt his heart jumped in his chest, a feeling he had not had in so many years it was almost painful.

Then she looked up, dark eyes meeting blue and said, with a voice that neared breaking, 'I am leaving,'

It took all of his strength to keep his hand where it was, all of his will to remain standing. He swallowed, almost breathless, and managed to ask, 'When?'

She closed her eyes, pressed her cheek into his palm, 'On Saturday morning,'

And that was it, almost as quickly as it had begun to beat again, Erik felt his heart stop. Suddenly, it was as if he was watching the whole thing unfold from somewhere above, like he was not quite a part of it.

When her eyes opened again she said, 'I'm sorry,'

'There is nothing I can do to change your mind?' he asked, although he had the sudden realisation that it was futile.

_All of his words, all of his plans, all of his love... _futile_._

Inside him, his soul screamed that he should take her anyway, just grab her and run. Briefly he wondered if she would stop him or if she would allow herself to be carried away, as she once had. They were there alone, she loved him, no one would know...

_He_ would know.

And what of his son, if he were to take Christine?

Christine's eyes clouded with another haze of tears and she shook her head.

'I assume le Victome knows that I am here,' Erik had meant for it to sound hard but instead the words tumbled out in a mist of desperation. They were sorrowful and weak and he wondered where _he_ had gone.

She nodded as she slowly took her hand away from his.

He stared at her, 'You don't want to leave,'

Christine turned and moved to the edge of the roof top, gazing out over the night as she leant on the wall. He heard her sigh as he approached at her side. She said, 'I never wanted to leave you,'

He closed his eyes.

'You sent me away and I left... because it was the right thing to do,' she explained. 'But I didn't want to go,'

He almost held his breath as she spoke, so that he would not give himself away, so that he _could_ not give himself away. He didn't dare look towards her; he did not want her to see the regret and sorrow in his eyes. She did not deserve to see the pain and the anguish that he felt running through his veins.

She deserved so much better than that.

She looked up at the stars, 'It's beautiful tonight,'

He too, stared upwards.

'I threw myself into arranging the wedding,' she told him. 'When you... when I left,'

Though he wanted to respond, he found that he simply could not.

'And then as it got closer...' she sighed and moved away from the edge, back into the centre of the roof top. 'It was a blur... I couldn't stop thinking about our kiss,'

He turned to look at her but she was not facing him.

'That kiss changed my life,' Christine said and she sounded so far away. 'One kiss...'

'It wasn't just your life,' Erik finally spoke, although he wasn't sure how. She glanced over her shoulder at him as he added, 'It changed mine too,'

She managed a small smile.

'It changed _me_,'

'I had to see you,' she said, shaking her head. He could see that she was remembering, as he had done nearly every day since that night. 'We... that night... I had never felt like that before,'

They faced each other but there was a considerable space between them and neither felt that they should close it. It was a reminder of how far they had drifted and how close they had once been.

'I haven't felt like that since,' she said, her voice low. 'I loved you,'

Erik turned around, his head dropping as he thought of the opportunities he might have had, had he not been so blinded by anger and jealousy. He could not bear to look at her now, telling him all of the things that he had always wanted to hear, only to then leave.

He felt her move up behind him and her arms encircle him from behind. He placed his hands on her arms, over his stomach and they stood there, pressed together, for what felt like an eternity. There was a quiet stillness to the moment that Erik silently relished and it was the contrast to their relationship that he found so moving. In all of the years they had known each other, everything seemed a constant wave of movement, an undulating torrent of discomfort, pain, elation, _love_... he didn't remember any true stillness before, because even in his dreams she was there, moving all around him.

He could feel the movement of her body as her breaths became ragged with tears and he pressed his hands to the skin on her arms in an effort to offer her some comfort. It seemed strange that he was somehow managing to portray an image of calmness because inside his soul was slowly dying.

'Oh, how I loved you,' she whispered.

'I'm sorry,' he managed to say.

_Desperately sorry_.

Her grip around him tightened, he felt her head rest against his back, 'I never intended to go back to Raoul after that night but... what could I do, Erik?'

He said nothing because words were not enough. There was nothing he could say that would change what had happened then or now, no amount of conversation would ever bring back the years they had lost. Nothing could thwart his tearing heart and nothing could stop her pain, this was what was left.

This was _all_ that was left.

'And so I can't stay with you,' she said, her voice thick with tears. 'Because Raoul is my husband... no matter how much I love you,'

He felt her kiss the space between his shoulder blades and then her arms move, her head move... her body was no longer pressed to his, her arms no longer around his waist. He could hear her feet on the hard floor as she backed away, he could feel the sorrow around him and yet he was powerless to stop it, to stop her.

'I have to go,' she said and the tone of her voice shook him, it was so full of regret.

'You'll forgive me,' he managed to say, his heart breaking as he spoke. 'If I don't turn around,'

Erik could almost feel the cracks appearing and running through his heart, through his veins, the shredding of his soul. He could feel his world shatter around him, everything he had ever wanted becoming further away.

'I don't think I could bear to watch you walk away again,' he said into the vastness, but in his heart he knew that she was already gone.

* * *

A/N: I know some of you will be saddened by this. This isn't the last chapter though and I have been reformatting chapter 35 so I think that this may run into 37/8 chapters now. Not because there is more, necessarily, just that I think the chapters will work better like that.


	34. Chapter 34

A/N: Did a bit of research here just to check about the dessert mentioned below and term Kid. Apparently both have been around for a very long time.

Also, there will be delays between updates now. I'm sorry about this. I have written chapter 35 but it is not in a state where I can post it. None of the other chapters are written... I'm struggling for spare time, unfortunately. I will do what I can and rest assured, It will be finished and it should be finished this side of Christmas. It just may be a little longer between updates (1/2 weeks instead of twice a week)

**Chapter 34**

Somehow she had managed to keep walking. She wasn't really sure how. Her knees felt soft, like sponge, and they were almost incapable of supporting her weight. With horror she realised that it was not only her knees but her entire body that was giving up on her. Every inch of her ached in one way or another, each section of her seemed unconnected to the others, as if she were several different pieces moving separately from each other. She could not connect what was in her mind to her limbs, yet she somehow made her way home based only on instinct.

The house was still quiet but she knew it was late, even without the aid of the clock in the entrance hall. She wondered if Raoul was home yet, and with some trepidation checked for his coat on the hat stand. On discovering that it was still missing, she felt a mixture of tangled emotions from which she could not discern the most prominent.

Part of her was relieved that he was not home; she had just spent the evening declaring her love to another man. Although she knew that she had not totally betrayed him, she knew that what she had done was a betrayal all the same and this prompted the guilt that swam in her stomach. She was sad that he wasn't there, as she always was when she could not see him but she was pleased that she would not have to have the inevitable discussion with him that night.

Briefly, she wondered what Philippe found to talk about so late into the night and felt her throat constrict at the thought that it might be her. She suddenly decided that the foremost emotion was, in fact, relief. She was glad to find that he was not home because she felt that she had simply shed enough tears for one night.

There was still anger coursing her veins as she crept up to bed being careful not to wake Benoit or the neighbour as she did. She felt as though she had been betrayed by Raoul as well. They had agreed to discuss the matter, like the couple that they had always been, and yet he had gone off on his own and arranged their transport back to France.

She changed into her night gown quietly and slid into bed. She gasped at how cold it felt without Raoul there and a sliver of sorrow buried itself in her mind and rested there as she curled herself up between the crisp sheets. Her eyes closed and she drifted off into a fitful sleep full of dreams.

The worst dream of all was where she was standing on a tightrope, fighting for balance as Erik held one end and Raoul held the other. In her one hand was Benoit, tiny like a doll, and in her other the town of New York. She wobbled almost uncontrollably but somehow remained balanced as tears streamed from her eyes. To her left, Erik looked at her. She could not see his eyes, only his mask, and as she reached for him he faded to blackness. When she turned to her right, Raoul stood there with his hands outstretched, trying to save her.

She knew, somehow, that it was useless. In her dream it was impossible for either man to save her without the other man's help. The knowledge that they could never work together, and that she would undoubtedly die, woke her with a start. She sat upright in bed, cheeks wet from the tears she had shed during sleep, and light pouring in through the window.

She checked the bedside clock and noticed that morning had come and was long gone, it was well after midday. She was amazed that she had slept for at such length but the feeling did not last for long, as her heart leapt to her mouth.

_Raoul._

_Benoit._

She looked at the other side of the bed and saw that it had clearly been slept in at some point in the night. The relief was short lived, though, as she threw herself out of bed, worried about why she had been left there for so long. Pulling on her dressing down she caught a glimpse of her reflection in her mirror and was horrified by what she saw. She looked tired, despite the additional sleep, and her eyes were so dark they were almost black. After making a quick attempt to neaten herself up she made her way downstairs and was comforted to hear the sound of laughing coming from beyond the kitchen.

Benoit and Helen were playing with a selection of her son's toys on the floor and they both looked up when she walked in. Helen stood.

'Good morning,' the cook said, smiling and moving past Christine. 'I will get your breakfast.'

Christi ne forced a smile back, 'More like lunch.'

Helen looked a little embarrassed before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving Christine and Benoit alone. He ran to her and she squeezed him into an embrace, planting a kiss on top of his head.

'Where is your father?' Christine asked as she relinquished her grip on him.

He sat back on the floor, 'He told me he was going to tie up some _loose ends_,'

She nodded, assuming that he probably had quite a lot to sort out before they sailed away the following morning. Cancelled deliveries of milk and bread, making sure all of their bills were paid, ensuring the house was put on the market for sale... her throat tightened.

'He told me not to wake you,' Benoit said as he twirled another Top across the floor. Those toys usually bored him and she found herself surprised that he was playing with them.

As she sat in the chair by the window she asked, 'Why did he ask you to leave me?'

Benoit shrugged his small shoulders and said, 'I think he said you were tired.'

Christine smiled, 'You think?'

He looked up at her and nodded, 'I don't know _everything_.'

She wondered.

After she had eaten her breakfast she listened to Benoit practicing his violin and then they walked on the beach, barefoot, as she deflected questions about why she had not gone to the theatre that day.

'It's nice to spend time with you,' she told him, in the hopes that he would let the subject drop.

Benoit had looked at her with what she thought was boyish satisfaction, 'I wish Lucy thought the same.'

Christine couldn't help but smile, 'You like Lucy, do you?'

Benoit's faced flushed crimson and he stared at his feet, 'No.'

'_Oh_, alright then...' she reached down and tickled his ribs as he squirmed for his freedom. Eventually he broke loose and ran ahead of her but she chased him with equal fervour until she caught him and they collapsed onto the sand giggling together. They lay on their backs, Benoit small next to her, catching their breath and laughing.

She had missed this.

That evening they took an early dinner with Raoul and when they were finished eating, Benoit ran off to play in his room leaving the couple alone for the first time in days. Once Helen had cleared the table and left for the evening Christine finally asked, 'What will you do about Helen?'

He looked confused and for a moment, Christine actually wondered if she had got the wrong idea. She persevered anyway, 'About losing her position.'

Raoul sighed, 'I was going to tell you...'

'I'm pleased to hear that,' Christine said coolly, 'For a moment there I was wondering if you might just club me about the head and drag me to the port.'

To his credit, he looked embarrassed, 'I didn't see you yesterday.'

'Because you were with your brother.'

Raoul shook his head, 'Because you were working.'

'One of us should, don't you think?'

She regretted the comment immediately. Raoul's face paled and when his eyes darkened with sadness, she realised how deeply she had hurt him.

'I've tried,' he said quietly.

She nodded, swallowed, 'I know... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.'

Raoul looked at her but said nothing.

'You should have spoken to me before you bought the tickets,' Christine said.

'For you to tell me that you want to stay?'

'It's not New York that keeps me here,' Christine said. 'It's my contract, my _duty_.'

He shook his head, 'It is _him_,'

'Honestly Raoul, you can't dictate my whole life.'

'I'm your husband,' he reminded her.

'It does not give you the right to up heave us.'

'Are you saying that you won't come?' Raoul asked, a note of anxiety punctuating the anger.

'What do you think?' she snapped.

'What do I think?' he said, his eyes fixed on hers. 'I think you want to stay here... I think you want to stay with _him_.'

'How can you say that?' she asked, surprised that he could be so uncertain of the depth of her feelings for him. She knew that they had been distant from each other and that things had been difficult but she had always loved him and had always shown him. 'You're my husband,'

Raoul looked away from her.

'I chose you, didn't I?'

'Did you?' he asked, turning back to her. She was surprised by the softness of his tone. She didn't know what to say to him. In that moment he looked so wounded, so lost, that she simply did not know what she could do to make things right.

She didn't answer his question.

'I saw him last night,' she admitted instead.

He nodded, hurt but listening and every flash of sadness on his face hurt her too.

'I told him I could not finish my contract, I told him we were leaving tomorrow.' His eyes met hers, 'I told him that I love you.'

'Then tell _me_,' Raoul asked. 'Because... lately...'

She reached out and held his hands in hers, 'I _do_ love you, Raoul, you know that.'

He nodded, a small smile finally lightening his face. 'I love you too, I always have.'

She knew that she could simply lose herself in the moment and pretend that everything was going to work itself out for the best. She could, it was possible, but she knew that she should not. The thought made her throat constrict, 'There is something I need to tell you,'

'What is it?'

She let go of his hands because hers suddenly felt so clammy. 'It's about Benoit,'

'Is he alright?' Raoul asked.

She nodded. 'I...'

As she was about to speak, as she was about to _confess_, the door opened to the dining room and Philippe stepped inside, sober and neatly dressed bearing a bottle of Port and pastries.

For once, she was almost pleased to see him.

'I'm interrupting,' he said and in his defence, did look slightly uncomfortable.

'No,' Christine said, taking Raoul's hand again and squeezing it gently. 'Not at all,'

Her husband smiled at her.

'Well,' Philippe said. 'In that case... I couldn't let you leave without a real send off, as it were,'

He waved his gifts and smiled.

* * *

Jack was fidgeting awkwardly in his seat at the restaurant when Samantha arrived and was greeted by the appreciative eyes of most of the male patrons. He rose from his seat to welcome her and was struck dumb by his momentary lapse in social skills. It had been such a long time since he had last done this that he really had no idea how to act. Going on instinct he took her hand, feeling the soft pads of her fingertips on his rough palm, and kissed it gently.

She smiled at him and he was buoyed by the warmth of it, 'Hello Jack.'

As she sat down he called the waiter over and asked him to bring them some wine. 'You choose,' he said to Samantha, and she smiled again.

While she was talking to the waiter he let himself study her face. She was still stunning. Her eyes were blue and clear, such a light blue that they became almost silver under moonlight and he realised how much he had missed looking into them. When her attention turned back to him he managed a nervous smile in her direction.

'This is...' he began to say and she laughed.

'Strange?' she suggested.

He nodded. 'It's been a long time.'

'It has been,' she said and they lapsed into a short spell of silence. Jack resisted the urge to begin squirming in his seat again and instead raised the menu and pretended to be reading it.

Eventually Samantha broke the silence, 'This is silly.'

He lowered the menu so that his eyes peered over the top.

'Let's order,' she said, 'And then we'll talk... like old times.'

He nodded and, when the waiter arrived with the wine that Samantha had chosen, they gave their food order. Left alone again it was Samantha that ploughed into conversation, clearly no longer wishing to sit in uncomfortable silence. She told him that she had been working for Erik for a while, that she still lived in a small apartment not far from the ocean, she told him how she had finally been able to afford to buy the gold necklace she had been coveting for so much of their relationship. She told him everything she could think of and before they knew it, the conversation was flowing freely.

When he glanced down he noticed that they had barely touched their wine or their food, they had been so completely engrossed in the exchange, in the moment.

By dessert, Jack felt once again at ease with her. He could remember all of the things he had fallen in love with and had missed so badly over the years.

Samantha took a mouthful of her chocolate cake, scooped up a glob of cream and held it to her mouth. 'This is really excellent.'

Jack smiled, 'I'm glad you like it.'

He tapped at the top of his crème brulee and broke through the caramelised top. When he looked up again, Samantha was watching him. 'You have such a sweet tooth for a man,' she said, with a small snigger.

It was music to his ears.

'You don't change,' she said but didn't look too disappointed. 'Dessert was always the best time... do you remember when we fought over that sponge cake?'

He grinned and nodded his head, 'Neither of us got any in the end.'

'None to eat anyway,' she smiled, her eyes twinkling with mischief in the candlelight.

'It's one of my favourite memories,' Jack told her.

'What?' she said. 'Me covered in jam and cream... you laughing hysterically?'

He smiled but inside his stomach moved and he felt suddenly very serious. 'I'm glad you're here,' he said. 'That _we're_ here.'

She met his eyes and reached over to grasp his hand, 'Me too.'

'It's like we've never been apart,' Jack said.

'Do you think we can be friends again?' Samantha asked. 'I _have_ missed you,'

Jack turned his hand and held her fingertips, 'Then why not more?'

Samantha's smile stayed fixed but something in her eyes changed and Jack felt his heart drop.

'You don't want me,' Jack said as Samantha broke the hold of their hands and the fixed gaze of their eyes.

'We've moved on,' Samantha said softly but still refused to meet his eyes.

'I _am_ different now,' Jack insisted but he knew that no amount of begging would change this. He had known this woman for so long that even now, even after they had been apart for years, he could still read her expressions.

'Jack...'

'What is it about me that is so off putting?' Jack asked, his heart slowly crumbling.

'It isn't that simple, Jack, things have changed.'

He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. 'Someone else...'

When he managed to look at her again he found that she was nodding her head slowly, her eyes glassy with tears.

'Why are _you_ crying?' he asked, more sharply than he had intended. 'Why did we even come here?'

Samantha took a deep breath and replied, 'I want to be your friend Jack.'

'That isn't enough for me.'

She sighed. 'Then I don't know what I can say.'

'I've _never_ wanted to be your friend,' Jack confessed. 'Not even when we were kids.'

She didn't respond.

'You know that,' he said, feeling the hurt that was rushing inside him turn to anger. 'Why are we here when you _know_ that?'

'Jack...'

'Did you want to make me feel bad?' Jack asked, disbelieving. His fists clenched on the table. 'Who is it?'

She looked at him.

He stared back, 'Who is it? This new _someone_...'

'Does it matter?' she asked and her voice was soft. She was not angry with him but, what was clear now was, she did not care either.

'You mean everything to me,' he said quietly, his mind flicking from anger to sorrow.

'We haven't seen each other for years,' she reminded him.

'That hasn't changed anything.'

She stood, 'I'm sorry, Jack, I should go.'

He shook his head. 'Tell me Samantha.'

'It doesn't matter,' she said. He felt lost. 'I really am sorry Jack.'

Jack shook his head, the horrible realisation suddenly hitting him. 'Erik.'

She stared at him and that was all the confirmation he needed.

'You would prefer him to me?' Jack asked, incredulous. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. After all that they had been through, after all the reasons they ended their relationship she was choosing _Erik_.

Samantha sighed, 'He has been good to me.'

'He's been bloody good to me too but I don't want to marry him!' Jack growled.

Samantha did not respond. Instead, she turned and began to walk away. It was only in that moment, when he stood to follow her, that he noticed everyone in the room was staring at him. Now, as he added humiliation to the list of his raging emotions, he threw down payment to the table and stormed out of the restaurant.

'How does he feel about you?' Jack shouted after her, not caring anymore about his dignity.

She did not answer him, she continued to walk as if nothing was happening. He jogged up behind her and grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around. She held her hands up to protect herself and he was stunned. He had never hurt her before and would not dream of it now.

'Do you think I would hit you?' he asked.

'You're angry,'

'I've been angry before...'

'I know,' she sighed. 'Please, let me go home.'

'Are you going to him?'

'No,' she replied. 'I'm going _home_.'

He let her walk away, no longer able to find words to say how he was feeling, to ask any more questions. He stood alone in the street, in the dark with his arms dangling at his sides. Despair flooded his body and he realised that all along he had been holding onto the hope that one day she would come back to him.

He knew now that she wouldn't and it felt like the final straw, the final ignominy. Fuelled by dejection and rage he began to walk and set off behind Samantha, it was time to end things once and for all.


	35. Chapter 35

A/N: Apologies for the delay. My family have had more bad news I'm afraid and I don't know when I will be able to get this done. Chapter 36 is half written. I promise it will be completed, I just don't know when (Although we're not talking years, I hasten to add)

Apologies if the standard is a bit... poo.

Chapter 35

It was only when Philippe asked how Benoit felt about the long voyage ahead that Roaul realised he had not been to kiss his son goodnight. Both he and Christine excused themselves from Philippe for a moment and headed up to his room.

As they walked he couldn't help but let his mind drift to his conversation with Christine. Deep down he had known that Christine would find the tickets; he knew her routine so well. He had not deliberately left them in the open but thinking back, he had not been too careful to hide them either. What a coward he was that he hoped that she would find them before he had to tell her.

Part of him also realised that if she found them, then she would probably seek the Phantom out as well. He never could understand their relationship and over the years had spent many a night torturing himself about those nights at the Opera Populaire, the ones where she disappeared and then did not return for days. Of course, over time, these thoughts had lessened and his marriage had seemed to grow from strength to strength but there always remained a niggling in his mind, something that sat deep down but occasionally rose to unsettle him.

He remembered, so well, _that_ night in the cellars. It was as vivid a memory as he had ever had and it wasn't only the mental scars that remained with him. At the side of his neck he still bore a small, pink blemish from where the Punjab lasso had cut into his skin. He touched it then, as they walked, and felt a sharp pain in his soul because although the injury no longer hurt, the memory still did.

He felt Christine reach for his hand, as if she could read his thoughts.

Quite why the Phantom had let them leave together that night, Raoul did not think he would ever understand. For months he had been tormenting them, stealing Christine away, sending threats and blackmailing them. The night it all came to an end, Raoul could sense no difference in the man's demeanour and with the rope around his neck, Raoul had pleaded with Christine to run, to save herself.

If it meant that she would be free then he was prepared to die for it.

The kiss seemed to come from nowhere and was as much of a surprise to Raoul as it appeared to be to the Phantom. The sight of her kissing him was agonising and Raoul had closed his eyes because it was just too much for him to bear. It was in that moment, though, that he developed something of an understanding for the man he knew only as Phantom.

Seeing Christine, the only love he had ever wanted, kissing another man had brought pain, rage and jealousy to Raoul unlike anything he had ever felt before. In that instant, with his eyes closed, he actually imagined how it must have felt for the Phantom to watch Raoul court the woman he too clearly loved.

The squeeze of his hand from Christine's fingers brought him back to the present and when he looked down at her she was staring at him in confusion.

'Are you alright?' she asked, her free hand resting on the door handle to Benoit's bedroom.

He cleared his throat, 'Of course.'

'You went somewhere...'

'I was just thinking,' he smiled and returned the squeeze of her hand. 'Nothing to worry about.'

She stared at him for a moment longer before pushing the door open. Raoul followed her inside and it became immediately obvious that something was not quite right. The window was open and there was a breeze chilling the room as it moved the curtains from side to side. Christine stepped further into the room before turning to him, her face as white as a ghost's.

'He isn't here,' she said, the words catching in her throat.

Raoul's heart began beating wildly in his chest as he struggled to remain calm. He looked around the room, under the bed, in the wardrobe but he knew better.

Benoit was not there.

Christine was almost frantic as she ran to the window and peered down. Raoul followed, balling his hands into fists in an attempt to compose himself, and looked out. Benoit, to his relief, was not lying injured on the ground below but there were flattened leaves and footprints in the mud, showing that whatever had happened _this_ was the way Benoit had left the room.

'He's taken him,' Raoul said and he was surprised at himself. He wasn't usually so quick to jump to conclusions, nor was he usually so sure of anything.

Christine turned and stared at him, 'What do you mean?'

'The Phantom,' Raoul explained. 'You told him we were leaving and so...'

It was only then that he noticed that Christine was shaking her head. 'Benoit has run away all by himself once already this week.'

'You don't think that the phantom is capable of this?' Raoul asked, feeling a little incredulous. He was rarely angry with his wife, he loved her so dearly, but her blindness to her teacher's crimes was difficult for him to swallow.

'He is more than capable of this,' Christine conceded. 'But he didn't do it.'

'How can you be so sure?' Raoul asked, trying to keep his voice even.

'I'm just sure, Raoul,' she said, 'We don't have time for this, we need to find him.'

Although Raoul agreed, it was hard to get the thoughts from his mind and as he followed her out of the room and down the stairs, his stomach churned with dread.

Philippe was in the entrance hall looking up at them. 'I was beginning to wo... What's wrong?'

'Benoit is missing,' Raoul told him, his stomach knotted. 'Get your dagger...'

'_Raoul_!' Christine interjected.

'What on earth for?' Philippe asked, confused, as he reached to touch Raoul's shoulder.

'Don't question me, just get it,' Raoul said and shrugged Philippe's hand away. 'We will head to the theatre together.'

'He won't be at the theatre,' Christine said, her voice quiet now despite the panic all around her. Raoul glanced at her and realised that the softness was not a sign of her calm, it was the exact opposite. Her eyes were wide, her breathing uneven... hands trembling.

'Why not?' Philippe asked her and if he noticed the quivering in her body he did not show it.

'Because I saw his footsteps in the sand and he wasn't going that way,' she said logically

Raoul stared at her.

'Which is one reason I know that it was not Erik who took him,' she explained. 'There were only Benoit's footprints, I didn't see any others.'

'_One_ reason?'

'This isn't the time Raoul.'

'She's right,' Philippe said, quite oddly the voice of reason in all of the chaos. 'We need to find him.'

'Then we'll follow his footsteps,' Raoul said, trying to think straight.

Christine grabbed his hand and squeezed it firmly. 'Let's go.'

All three of them set off in the same direction, careful to pick out Benoit's footsteps in the sand and not confuse them with anyone else's. Raoul wondered how long Benoit had been gone and felt the icy grip of fear squeeze at his heart. No matter what Christine said, Raoul still worried that the Phantom was involved in this and so had brought his dagger anyway.

He would much rather be safe than sorry.

* * *

Erik heard him from quite a distance away but did not turn around until he caught the click of his footsteps on the wooden boards of the pier. The night was bright because the moon was high and the clouds were sparse, so even from a distance Erik could tell that Benoit had been crying. He didn't stand, instead he turned back to face the water, his right foot hanging over the edge and his back resting against the corner post.

'I thought it was you, Monsieur,' Benoit said as he approached.

Erik looked up at him, 'It's late.'

Benoit stared down at his small feet as the shuffled from side to side.

'Where is your mother?' Erik asked.

Benoit shrugged.

'Have you gone mute?'

The boy looked up with a frown and blinked his sore looking eyes. 'No.'

'Then why don't you answer me?'

'I don't want to.'

Erik stood and walked to him, 'Then I will have to take you home.'

'No,' Benoit said, staring up at him, eyes wide.

'Why on earth not?' he asked, his patience thin but not breaking. He kept reminding himself that Benoit was only a child, over and over in his mind, _he is just a child_.

'They don't want me there,' Benoit replied sadly.

'Have they told you that?' Erik asked because it seemed a logical question to pose given the circumstances.

Benoit shook his head.

'Then how do you know that they don't want you there?' Erik asked.

'They argue.'

Erik raised his eyebrows at the titbit of information. 'And what about their arguing suggests that they don't want you there?'

Benoit shrugged.

Erik softened, 'Adults argue, Benoit.'

'_They_ don't,'

'But they _are_,' Erik said and, much to his own dismay, then added, 'Arguing is normal.'

'They hate me,' he said with tears in his eyes.

'How could they?'

'Because I don't fit in,' he sobbed.

Erik stared at him for a moment, watching as tears streamed from his blue eyes and his lips trembled with whatever inner anguish he was carrying. He too, knew how it felt to not belong but he could not understand how a boy with such perfect features, such incredible intelligence, could feel out of place.

'Where don't you fit in?'

Benoit blinked, 'Everywhere,'

'Why?'

He shrugged. 'I'm different.'

'Is that such a bad thing?' Erik asked him.

'No-one likes me.'

'I like you.'

'You're different too,' Benoit said. 'It doesn't count.'

'Of course it counts,' Erik insisted.

'I think we're going back to France,' Benoit told him and Erik felt his heart begin to ache again.

'Perhaps it's for the best.'

'I don't want to go.'

'I'm afraid you might have to.'

'But I don't want to,' Benoit said, the sound of tears creeping back into his voice.

Erik was at a loss for what to say next. They both stood on the pier in silence, Benoit let out of the occasionally sigh as the tears began to dry from his face and Erik watched him but neither said anything until Benoit's face suddenly brightened.

'I could stay here,' he said cheerfully.

'Without your parents?' Erik asked.

'With you!'

'_What_?'

Benoit smiled. 'I like you, mama likes you...'

'I don't think she will want you to stay here without her Benoit.'

'Then _she_ should stay,' he said, folding his arms across his chest.

'Your mother loves you,' Erik told him. 'She will want you to go with her.'

'Don't you want me to stay?' Benoit asked.

'You hardly know me,' Erik reminded him avoiding the question as best he could because he _did_ want him to stay. He wanted them both to stay more than Benoit could ever understand.

Benoit shrugged, 'At least you like me.'

'Your mother loves you,' he repeated.

'You understand me,' Benoit insisted.

Erik sighed, 'She tries to.'

'Well she doesn't.'

'And what makes you so sure that I do?'

Benoit stared at him, 'You're like me.'

Erik said nothing.

'You're the only one who is,' he said quietly, his bottom lip beginning to tremble again.

Erik took his jacket off and placed it around the boy's shoulders. 'Let me get you home.'

'No, please...'

'Benoit, you are standing here in your pyjamas.'

'_Please_...' he cried. 'Don't make me leave.'

Suddenly, Erik realised how much it hurt to see him cry. Benoit stood with Erik's jack draped over his shoulders, red eyes with damp, pink cheeks. His small arms hung down by his sides and he simply cried, not because he wanted Erik to listen but because he was in pain. Erik tugged the jacket tighter around his shoulders, scared the boy might catch his death, and looked down at him.

'It will be alright,' Erik told him, touching his small shoulder gently with his fingertips.

Benoit flung himself forward and wrapped his arms around Erik's waist, pressing his face against him and crying into his shirt. Erik immediately froze, not knowing what to do or say. The boy clung to him as if he might be pulled away at any moment and so Erik allowed him to stay there and, momentarily letting instinct to take over, rubbed his back gently.

'I'm sorry Benoit,' Erik whispered. 'Sometimes things aren't as simple as they seem. Give your mother a chance.'

Benoit sniffed. 'I don't want to go.'

'Maybe when you're older you can come back to see me,' Erik said and, without thinking, stroked his hair. 'If you still want to.'

'I can?' Benoit said.

'Of course.'

'Promise?'

'I promise,'

Benoit pulled back and ran his pyjama sleeve along his nose. Erik grimaced but it didn't seem to bother Benoit as he stared back up at him.

'When?' Benoit asked.

Erik wondered if children were always so persistent.

'When you're older,' Erik told him.

'How much older?' Benoit asked.

'Whenever you're old enough to travel alone.'

Benoit frowned. 'I do that now.'

'Not with your mother's permission, though, I see,' Erik said.

The boy blushed.

'Are you ready to go home now?' Erik asked, placing his hand on Benoit's shoulder.

'I suppose.'

Erik placed his arm around Benoit's shoulders, offering his support, and they turned to leave the pier together. Never in his life had he dreamed that he would have children; it seemed such a far-fetched idea, given his circumstances. Christine was the only women he had ever loved and so since Paris, it had seemed increasingly unlikely that children would ever grace his life. He had not particularly cared either.

Now, though, with his arm around his son who was pressed into his side for warmth, he felt an affection which he thought he was incapable of. He glanced down at the boy and noticed that his eyelids were looking heavy.

When he looked back up again he was stopped dead in his tracks.


	36. Chapter 36

A/N: More apologies for the delay. I think it has been two weeks since the last so please forgive me. I hope this is okay.

**Chapter 36**

Raoul froze.

It wasn't surprise or fear that gripped him as he stared across the pier, it was simply the alarm of seeing _him_ again. He felt Philippe's hand grip his shoulder and he turned to glance at his wife, who looked surprised but not at all concerned. When he turned back, both the Phantom and Benoit were looking at him, one with anxiety and the other with something akin to amusement.

He felt acid rise into his throat and he swallowed it painfully away, leaving an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach. He moved to step towards them but the softness of Christine's hand on his forearm stopped him.

'Benoit,' he said. He had intended for the sound to be warm but it came out as a strangled demand and Benoit's face paled visibly as his grip on the hem of the Phantom's jacket tightened.

The Phantom looked down at the small shape by his side and then back up at Raoul. When he smiled, Raoul gripped the handle of his dagger because it was all he could do to prevent himself from screaming into the night.

Christine's hand was still resting on his arm and he could not decide if he was angry with her or not. He knew he should probably be furious but somehow he could not muster that depth of anger towards her, especially when she stepped in front of him and held her arms out to their son. Though her smile was somewhat forced it still contained the warmth that always emanated from her as she beckoned Benoit towards her.

He stood completely still, either ignoring her or being held back, Raoul could not tell from his vantage.

'I'm not angry,' she said softly but Benoit still did not move and, to Raoul's everlasting dismay, he reached up and grasped onto the Phantom's hand.

Christine stood and sighed.

'Benoit, please come,' Raoul tried, more gently this time. 'It is getting late, it's cold... let's go home.'

The Phantom smiled at him. _That_ smile. That dreadful smile that was neither genuine nor fake, that was unreadable, indefinable and the very sight of it sent Raoul's entire body cold.

'It appears, Vicomte, that the boy is quite happy where he is.'

Raoul's fist clenched involuntarily and under his other hand he could feel the cool shape of the dagger. It took all of his strength, all of his willpower, not to fly at him in that moment. Not to pounce forward and grab hold of him, taking out all the years of buried frustration and anger on the main cause of it. His whole body was tense, from head to toe, but Raoul somehow controlled the rage that burned in his stomach.

'Erik...' Christine's voice broke him from his temper.

The Phantom looked at her.

'Please.'

A deathly silence fell around them as his wife's eyes locked with the man's she called Erik. They stood staring at each other for what could easily have been an eternity before the Phantom looked down at Benoit and said, 'Your mother worries about you.'

Benoit said nothing at first and, for a painful moment, Raoul worried that he might not react at all but then he nodded.

To Raoul's growing wonder the Phantom crouched and said, 'She loves you, you won't forget that will you?'

Benoit shook his head.

'No more tears,' he said, as he stood and turned back to face them. The smile was no longer there but had been replaced by a look of resignation and, if Raoul had not known better, sadness. To Christine he said, 'I am glad I saw you again.'

Raoul felt her body stiffen at his side, braced for _what;_ Raoul did not think he wanted to know.

'Every moment...' he paused as if the words were stuck in his throat and then, finally, said, 'Every moment with you is one that I will treasure for all of my life.'

The words stung Raoul but what was worse was the look on Christine's face, the look of sorrow, the look of _longing_, a look that no matter how he tried he knew he would never forget. When he glanced back at his brother he suddenly realised that he had known all along, that this was no surprise to him and Raoul's stomach turned with anguish.

He felt sick and the dagger beneath his hand no longer felt a comfort but a burden because no matter what he did with it, it could never change this.

Finally, Christine held out her hands and said, 'Shall we go home darling?'

Benoit nodded his head and managed a smile at his mother. When, instead of walking to them, he looked up at the Phantom it was another knife to Raoul's heart.

'Maybe you could visit _me_?' Benoit said quietly. 'In France.'

The Phantom reached out and touched Benoit's soft hair but this time his smile was as sincere as Raoul thought he had ever seen.

Benoit added, 'Because I won't be old enough to come for a while... I think.'

'Maybe.'

'Promise?'

The Phantom turned his eyes to Christine, 'I'm not sure I can...' he said as he looked back at Benoit, 'But I will look forward to seeing you. _Whenever_ that is.'

Benoit released his hand and began to walk towards Christine but just when Raoul was about to breathe a sigh of relief, the moment of reprieve was shattered.

Seemingly from nowhere, Jack stepped onto the pier out of the blackness, grasping the blonde woman Raoul had recently met in one hand and a pistol in the other. He threw her at his feet onto the wooden floor and waved the gun towards them all.

Raoul turned just as the Phantom grabbed Benoit by the arm and shifted him behind his body, shielding him from Jack and the wobbling gun.

'Jack...' he said.

'I'm interrupting,' Jack said, his voice strained.

'What are you doing?' the Phantom asked, his eyes suddenly dark and sharp.

'What am _I_ doing?' Jack asked. 'Your little gathering looks far more interesting that anything _I_ am doing.'

Philippe's voice broke through, 'Samantha, are you alright?'

Her eyes gazed up, bloodshot and full of tears, she shook her head.

'Jack what are you thinking?' Philippe asked and it was a credit to his brother that he still couldn't see what a rogue Jack was. Loyal to the end.

'I'm not here to speak to you,' Jack told him and there was no doubt in Raoul's mind that Jack was not joking.

'It doesn't look like your intention is to _speak_ to anyone,' the Phantom interjected, his voice as even and as calm as if he were taking a leisurely stroll. Raoul was amazed at his poise because his own heart was pounding so uncontrollably.

Jack spun towards him, his arm out in front of him, the gun shaking dangerously in his palm.

'I'm tired, Jack,' the Phantom sighed, his hands ensuring that Benoit stayed behind him. 'What is the problem?'

'You mean to tell me that you don't know why I might be upset?'

'I can think of a hundred reasons you _might_ be upset,' the Phantom told him. 'But then I would say that the word upset is rather under_valuing_ the situation, wouldn't you?'

Jack laughed harshly, '_You_ and _Samantha_.'

For a moment Raoul actually thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty cross the Phantom's composed features, the hint of a frown which so quickly disappeared, that it might easily have been imagined.

'What about us?'

Jack laughed again.

A flash of anger lit in the Phantom's eyes, 'I'm getting impatient.'

'I've got the gun,' Jack snapped. 'Better hope _I_ don't get impatient.'

If the words or the pistol bothered the Phantom, Raoul certainly could not tell. The only nerves he could sense were from Jack and from Christine stirring at his side.

'Jack,' she said gently.

He turned his eyes on her but, much to Raoul's relief, left the gun pointing at the Phantom.

'This isn't you,' she said.

'But it is,' Jack said remarkably calmly.

She shook her head, 'Then at least let Benoit leave.'

Jack was quiet.

'He hasn't done anything wrong,' she stressed, her eyes so wide with fear that Raoul reached out and squeezed her hand.

'You're right,' Jack nodded.

'You won't hurt him, will you Jack?' Christine asked and Raoul noticed the slight quiver in her voice.

Jack shook his head.

'Benoit,' she said. His small frame and frightened eyes turned to his mother. 'Go to Uncle Philippe.'

Slowly, Benoit slid out from behind the Phantom, who continued to shield him as he moved away. Once Benoit was free of his shadow he broke into a sprint and leapt into Philippe's grateful arms.

Philippe said to them, 'Let's go.'

Raoul nodded and grabbed Christine's hand, 'His problem isn't with us, right Jack?'

Jack nodded.

'Come Christine.'

To Raoul's dismay, Christine's eyes found the Phantom's across the pier. 'I can't leave,' she said.

The Phantom looked back at her, 'Don't be a fool, Christine.'

'I won't leave you here,' she told him firmly and then turned back to face Raoul, 'Get Benoit home.'

'You must be joking, surely?' Raoul said, incredulous.

She shook her head.

'Christine...'

'No, Raoul.'

He sighed and looked over to Philippe. 'Take him home, make sure he is safe. _Don't_ come back. I will see you later.'

His brother's shock was etched into his face and he made no effort to hide it as he said, 'So you're _both_ going to endanger your lives?'

'Go.'

At a loss Philippe pulled Benoit into his body and walked away, leaving them with just one final glance over his shoulder. Raoul attempted to give him a look that told him everything was going to be fine but he must have failed miserably because he did not know that himself. He had no idea what was happening.

'Last chance,' Jack said, reminding them all of the situation they now found themselves in. 'I'll let you go but this is the last time I will offer.'

'I'm staying,' Christine said. 'We can discuss this.'

'You really do love him don't you?' Jack asked her but the question was clearly rhetorical. 'Did you know about Samantha?'

'I don't understand, Jack,' Christine said, honestly.

'They're in love.'

If Christine was surprised by this or even believed it, Raoul could not tell. He had rarely ever seen her like this, her eyes focused, her face completely expressionless. On the outside she was calm and Raoul wondered what was going on in her mind, whether she was as worried as he was.

'If they are in love,' Christine said. 'Then surely they have that right?'

'Don't make me laugh,' Jack snapped, eyes blazing. 'And don't be such a hypocrite.'

'_Enough_!' the Phantom said, his voice low and booming. Silence fell briefly into the air and they all stood at the impasse, no one dared move nor speak as they quietly weighed their options.

Finally, the Phantom said, 'You're wrong Jack.'

'Don't tell me I'm wrong.'

The Phantom shrugged.

'This is what we're going to do,' Jack said as he reached down and lifted Samantha to her trembling feet. They all stood still and it was only in that moment that Raoul realised that he was holding his breath. 'We're going to play a game.'

'This isn't a game,' Christine said.

Jack turned to her. 'It is what I say it is.'

'What are the rules, Jack?' the Phantom asked, seemingly unfazed by what was happening.

'You get to choose,' Jack told him.

'Choose what?'

'Who lives.'

'And my options?'

'Samantha or Christine,' Jack informed him.

The Phantom smiled.

Raoul's heart sank.

This was no choice for the Phantom, Raoul knew that, and if Jack was thinking straight then he would know it too. This man... this _Erik_...would sacrifice anything and anyone for Christine, he had done so before and Raoul knew without a second thought that he would do it again. This meant that Samantha was sure to die and, though he would of course choose his wife, he would prefer it if no one died at all.

'I warn you, Jack, you're wrong about this,' the Phantom said.

Raoul grasped Christine's hand and pulled her close to his side.

'He won't kill me,' she whispered.

Raoul glanced at her, 'He has lost his marbles.'

She squeezed his hand.

'Can I ask you a question, Jack?' the Phantom asked.

Jack scowled but nodded.

'How has Christine wronged you?'

'_You_ have wronged me!' Jack told him.

'Then why punish Christine _or_ Samantha?'

'To punish you.'

'I see,' the Phantom shrugged. 'I have no interest in Samantha, I assure you, and Christine is leaving anyway... tomorrow.'

Jack said nothing.

'And so with that in mind... I was just wondering how you were punishing me by hurting them?' the Phantom shrugged. 'I don't want Samantha and Christine is already leaving me.'

Jack seemed to think about it for a moment, 'At least she would be alive.'

'What difference does that make?'

For a moment Jack looked perplexed, his brow furrowed and his eyes darkened, but then he said, 'Fine. I will kill you all.'

'With just the one round?' the Phantom asked.

'I have more...'

'Who will you shoot first?'

Raoul felt his heart racing as Jack shrugged his shoulders, indicating that either he did not know or it did not matter.

'It should be me,' the Phantom said.

'Why?' Jack asked, his eyes fixed onto his adversary. 'I think... I think you should watch Christine die.'

Raoul stepped in front of his wife. _Over his dead body. _

'It should be me, Jack,' the Phantom said, his voice low... _quiet_. 'Because if you shoot her first do you honestly think I will let you live long enough to get another bullet from your pocket?'

Jack stared.

'I will snap your neck,' the Phantom explained as he held up his hand and clicked his fingers.

Raoul stood quietly, he could feel his wife's breath on the back of his neck and he wondered how Jack could think that either man would allow Christine to be killed. Despite the pistol, Jack was vastly outnumbered and no matter who he shot he would never be allowed to get another bullet loaded into his gun. Oddly, Raoul wondered why Jack carried such a relic of a pistol around with him when revolvers were so readily available but his question was about to be answered.

'You're an idiot, Jack,' the Phantom told him. Raoul winced at the spark of anger that crossed Jack's face. 'You brought your father's rusty old pistol and thought you could win this.'

Jack glared at him.

'He was right about you,' the Phantom continued to goad. 'The way he treated you... you're proving yourself the fool he always said you were.'

Jack threw Samantha to the floor in a fit of anger and stepped forward, pointing the gun directly at the Phantom's chest. 'Fine, have it your way.' he growled.

Christine leapt out from behind Raoul but he grabbed her hand and pulled her back.

'Jack, don't do this,' she pleaded.

He didn't even turn to face her.

'Please...' she begged, her eyes filling with tears.

'Enough is enough,' Jack said, his hand trembling but Raoul saw in his eyes that there would be no talking him out of this now. His decisions had been made.

'No Jack,' Christine gasped. 'Please... don't...'

Raoul glanced at her and saw the paleness of her cheeks, the tears that poured from her eyes, her clenched fists. He saw the pain carved into her expression, the horror that shaded her eyes, the fear that sent her body rigid. He could see that she was no longer trying to hide how she felt, that all of her emotions, all of the love she felt for him, was out in the open and plain for all to see.

Including Raoul.

'Don't hurt him, Jack,' she appealed. 'You can still walk away.'

The Phantom looked at her, Jack's gun metres away from his chest and yet the only thing he seemed able to think of was Christine.

'Any last words?' Jack asked. Raoul noticed that the shaking had stopped and that the pistol was straight and focused.

The Phantom did not look at him, instead he kept his gaze resting on Christine, their eyes locked together as if there was not another person in the world.

Raoul's heart began to crumble.

'I love you,' the Phantom said.

Christine turned to Jack, 'Please don't do this, Jack,' she cried.

Jack said nothing.

She moved forward and to Raoul's relief the Phantom held up his palm, urging her back and out of harm's way. She stood still, her eyes brimming and hands hanging limply at her side, as if this was simply draining the life from her. Pain shimmered in her breath as she struggled to contain the ragged sobs that racked her body.

A moment of silence fell as she swallowed back her tears, the Phantom's eyes were on her as she composed herself, visibly shaking as she sucked in a long, deep breath.

'I love you,' she whispered.

Raoul's heart finally collapsed.


	37. Chapter 37

A/N: This chapter has _seriously_ evolved... and wasn't supposed to look like this. Which means that the story got a little longer- sorry for that but I just started writing and this happened. My apologies if you don't like it... I try!

Chapter 37

Erik glanced at Christine one final time as the words he had always lived for hung in the cool night air around them. He could feel Jack's eyes on him as he allowed himself that one last gaze at her face, those beautiful cheeks and soft eyes that he had adored for as long as he could remember. Heart heavy but accepting he turned back to face his fate, the barrel of the gun looking a whole lot blacker than it had only minutes before.

'Jack...' he said but the other man stopped him.

'Don't try to talk me out of this,' Jack growled, the pistol now stable in his hand. 'I _trusted_ you.'

Erik took a fleeting look at Samantha, who's usually flowing blonde hair was matted, with sand and moisture, to her face. She was huddled into herself, eyes wide and bloodshot, utterly terrified but unable to extricate herself from the situation despite now being free.

For the first time ever he felt something akin to tenderness for another woman. Not love, no, but sorrow, _affection_. His intentions had been nothing but decent. He honestly thought that Jack and she could rekindle some sort of life together because Jack was so like Erik... and their situation felt so similar to his own.

Unfortunately for Jack, Samantha was nothing like Christine. Erik was, perhaps for the only time in his life, sorry for something he had caused.

His eyes met Jack's.

'I wasn't going to try to talk you out of anything,' Erik told him honestly. He knew too well what it looked like when someone had made up their mind about something. He had done this himself too many times to count.

Jack frowned but did not say anything.

'I was just going to tell you that I understand.'

Jack stepped forward, but not too close. Not nearly close enough for him to be disarmed but that wasn't Erik's intention anyway. He would accept his punishment because it was no more than he deserved after the years of torment he had caused others, after the acts of violence and manipulation, the suffering.

'I know how it feels,' he added, his eyes fixed on Jack.

Jack's finger whitened on the trigger.

'How it feels to love someone who ... who _cannot_ love you in return.'

The sound of a wave crashing into the pier was the only noise, the _only_ distraction. Jack's face was pale, his eyes were dark and wild, but in spite of this he looked focused and sure.

'Let's get this over with.'

Jack nodded his head. So _sure_.

Erik closed his eyes.

He closed them, not because he was afraid to die or because he did not want to see the gun explode; his death held no fear for him, it never had. He closed his eyes because he wanted to remember that night, all of those years ago, the night that Christine came back to him. He did not remember the lust, that wasn't what it was about, but he chose to remember the way she felt in his arms as she drifted effortlessly into a peaceful sleep. With his eyes squeezed shut he could feel her hair tickling his chin, he could feel her head resting on his chest, her arms wrapped around his torso. He could feel as contented as he had that night, he could feel as _loved_.

When he heard the pistol blast, he simply sucked in a breath and held the sight of Christine's face in his mind, where she could always remain. He felt the warmth he had always felt with her near, the energy, the certainty... what he did not feel was any pain.

* * *

As the words left her mouth she had never been so sure of anything in her life. She had said them softly, earnestly... she had said them with the honesty that had always been there but had only recently found the surface.

She saw Erik accept the words, she saw the softening in the darkness of his blue eyes, she saw his stance relax and she saw him _believe_ it, as if he had never quite been able to before. How she wanted to run to him and pull him away from this, to rescue him as he so often had done for her. She wanted to take him away, to wrap him up, because in his love she saw the innocence he had always somehow possessed.

It was clear now that Jack would not reverse his decision; that he was going to kill the man she loved... the man she had _always_ loved. She knew that she was powerless to stop him. It was impossible for her to get to the gun before he fired a shot and so, though her heart was breaking, she accepted what was clearly to be Erik's fate.

She felt Raoul stir at her side and knew how the words must have wounded him.

Only right then it did not matter.

She knew that _mostly_ she had been a good wife. She had put Erik behind her and continued with their life together as if nothing had happened. Although she had lived with the guilt of _that_ night every day since it had happened, she devoted herself to the husband that she loved and the son she so treasured. She had dedicated those years to her family, she had not sought Erik out, she had not asked about him, she had not even spoken his name...

She had chosen to marry Raoul.

In all of those years of marriage she had never hurt Raoul. Not until now, and although in the morning it might matter to her, at that moment, with Erik in peril, it simply did not.

Jack was growing agitated again but his arm was straight and unwavering as he snapped, 'Don't try to talk me out of this.'

Christine risked looking at Erik's face and immediately wished that she hadn't.

His eyes were fixed on Jack and they were the most beautiful colour she had ever seen them. They were clear, deep and completely unguarded. She did not see his mask, only his eyes, only his lips and she realised that he had never looked more wonderful to her. It was as if, for the first time in his life, he had found some peace.

She placed her hand over her heart and swallowed hard in an attempt to dislodge the growing lump in her throat.

She could barely breathe.

'How it feels to love someone who ... who _cannot_ love you in return.'

Her eyes began to sting again, her body shuddered and she felt hot tears spill onto her cheeks. As much as she wanted to beg for his life, to make Jack see some sort of reason, she knew that it was no use. It was impossible now.

Her knees weakened beneath her, buckling under the strain of her anguish, but somehow she stood firm.

'Let's get this over with.'

Christine gasped, she couldn't help it... couldn't _bear_ it. Erik closed his eyes and she suddenly felt like she was suffocating... like she was dying and she wondered how she would ever endure this.

Jack squeezed back on the trigger.

* * *

It was difficult to believe what he was seeing and what he was hearing. Jack had never been much of a romantic but he wasn't completely without sentiment and under most other circumstances might have found the moment quite touching.

_Obviously_, Raoul didn't.

He looked quite nauseous, if anything.

Jack barely noticed anymore, he felt so consumed by his pain. He could hardly see anything else. It felt like something had snapped in him. Really _snapped_. He actually felt it go, he felt the moment he realised what he fool he had been played for, the moment everything changed. It almost felt like a relief, if he was honest. At least now he knew where he stood, at least now he knew what he must do.

The only really painful thing left was that he has wasted so much time in Erik's overbearing shadow. It felt strange, even so, holding a gun pointed at his boss's chest. He had never imagined that it would all come to this, how could he? Before a week ago he had not even known that Samantha was working with the company, let alone in love with Erik.

He felt the bubbling of acidic rage in his stomach again as he heard Erik say his name.

'Don't try to talk me out of this,' he said, staring straight at Erik. Not caring what happened anymore. He had made up his mind and he knew now that it was the only way he could find any harmony for himself.

He did not think he could stand to hear Erik's voice anymore.

He knew how it worked.

How Erik could use _that_ voice. He had seen it before... hypnotic, _powerful_. No, he wouldn't get Jack. _No_. Not like he had manipulated the others.

All of the others.

It angered him that he still felt aware of Christine's presence. He was focused and yet he could still feel her. Could feel the weight of her disappointment. He wanted to not care, not give a damn, but he _did_ and that only enraged him further, made him more determined.

He had nothing left now. There was no hope of reconciliation with Samantha, with the love of his life, and that had been the final straw. It has been all he could take. How could he go on without punishing the cause of _this_.

He stared back over at Erik, ignoring the sensation of Christine's presence.

'... I understand.'

Strangely, Jack knew that he _did_ understand. Knew that he understood probably better than anyone else but it wasn't like it made a difference. It didn't change anything. It couldn't take away the pain and the hurt, it couldn't undo what had been done.

Understanding was meaningless.

'Let's get this over with.' Erik said.

Jack nodded his head because he could not agree more.

He tensed his body, straightened his arm.

He pulled the trigger.

* * *

Raoul had never felt so detached.

After hearing Christine's quiet, desperate declaration of love his body seemed to shift and his soul seemed to be above it all. He felt as though he was watching this whole event unfold from just above it and he wondered if he cared what happened anymore.

He shuddered when he heard the Phantom say Jack's name and it seemed to bring him back, centre his mind squarely inside his body once again. The feeling returned to him and he somehow found the will to take a glance in Christine's direction.

She was still.

_Staring_.

There were tears in her eyes and her hands were balled tightly into fists at her side. She was squeezing them so hard that the knuckles on them had turned to an off shade of white and her nails were creating dents into her palms. Momentarily he had the urge to reach out and squeeze her hands in his, to stop the pain, to ease her mind. He knew then that no matter what she did, he would always love her.

'I know how it feels,' the Phantom said, his eyes on Jack now despite Christine's gaze being fixed firmly on him. Raoul wondered what would happen if _he_ spoke, if _he_ tried to get her attention but one look in her panicked eyes told him that in all likelihood she would not even hear his voice.

Jack seemed oddly calm, although his eyes were stormy and worryingly wide, they betrayed at least some turmoil within him but Raoul knew that there was not enough uncertainty to change this. Raoul's own heart was beating, utterly frenzied, in his chest and he was fighting his instincts, trying to give himself chance to figure out what to do next. Use logic, not emotion.

Raoul swallowed to wet his mouth and was tempted to protest against Jack's ill thought out actions when the Phantom said, 'How it feels to love someone who ... who _cannot_ love you in return.'

Raoul gritted his teeth together and simply could not single out an emotion, there were so many whirling through him, confusing him. He closed his and tried to imagine what he should do, try to imagine how his father might have dealt with this, but nothing came to mind. The only thing he saw was Christine holding Benoit's tiny, new born body... the rosiness of her cheeks, the joy in her smile and in her eyes, the way she clasped him to her body as he wriggled to get free, finally introduced to the world.

When he opened his eyes he looked at her briefly but could not bear to linger, could not bear to see the pain on her beautiful face.

The Phantom said, 'Let's get this over with.'

It was said in a calm tone, an even voice, the voice of a man not worried to die... not afraid of it. Raoul wondered if he could be so brave and so contented in the knowledge of Christine's everlasting love.

Again, he glanced at his broken wife and wondered if she could live through this. Live through the knowledge that the Phantom was gone... really, _truly_ gone.

He watched as Jack held up his arm and his finger tensed against the trigger. Jack nodded at the Phantom as if agreeing with his words.

Raoul made his decision. As Jack pulled back on the trigger he ran forward, as fast as he could, not knowing if he would make it.

Next there was pain.

Searing, frightful pain that radiated from his chest and through his entire body.

The air flew out of him and he heard Christine's voice, he felt strong arms around him...

He saw blackness.

* * *

A/N: Well, it's a different format but... I don't know. I liked writing it from the different perspectives. I decided that Samantha's view wouldn't add much but if you think it would have, my apologies, and I will try to update this chapter at a later stage.

This should come in at 40 chapters (although my planning could be off, I don't really want it to be longer than that, and that does include the alternate endings)


	38. Chapter 38

A/N: Reviews for the last few chapters have been amazing, even above and beyond the usual high standard, so thank you all very much. I won't have time to make individual replies until the end, I don't think, but I will reply to you all when this is over. 

This definitely won't be finished by Christmas (I'm sorry!) as I am away for three weeks so won't be updating again until week commencing 10th January 2011. Please forgive me. I had all good intentions but life got in the way and put me behind.

**Chapter 38**

Erik's eyes blinked open at the sound of Christine's agony fuelled scream, '_Raoul_!'

They opened just in time to see the moment the bullet impacted Raoul's torso, it threw him backwards and, without thinking, Erik reached out, hooking his arms under Raoul's shoulders and cushioned his fall. He crouched, lowering him to the ground and then he looked over at Jack, fully expecting to see him reloading his blasted pistol, ready to take another shot.

Jack's face was a ghastly white and his jaw hung open, slack with shock as he stared down at the mess he had made. Erik glanced at Raoul, whose eyes were squinting but open, his breathing laboured. When he looked at Christine he felt a sharp pull at his heart.

She stared down at him, at Raoul and then she turned her eyes on Jack. The gun still dangled loosely in his hand but that did not quell Christine's hurt, her anger and much to Erik's surprise she flew forward. She took Jack by surprise as she knocked the gun from his palm and her fists flew at his chest with uncontrolled, unbridled emotion and as her hands connected with his body she shouted words that made no sense as they tangled in the air.

Erik stood.

Jack blinked once. Twice... and then held Christine's arms in his hands, stemming the flow of her punches as her feet began to kick at him, as sobs caught in her throat, as tears spilled from her eyes.

It took Erik only three strides to get to them and in one swift movement he reached out for Christine, pulling her back and to the side. _Out of the way._ From the corner of his eye he saw her standing alone; calm and then, in horror, turn to face her husband... she froze, staring.

Steadily, Erik picked the gun up from the floor and threw it as hard and as far as he could, with everything he had. He watched the grey object turn black and then disappear into the distance.

The following splash sounded miles away.

Jack cowered.

Erik felt all of the muscles in his body bunch, his hands clench to fists and yet he turned his back because he could no longer bear to look at the man the he had once considered his friend. He could not bear to see his face, to see another mask of betrayal.

'Go Jack.' He told him, without turning. 'If I ever see you again... I _will_ kill you.'

Jack barely hesitated, there was a fraction of a second where silence fell and Erik thought he might not go but soon he was listening as Jack's footsteps pounded along the pier and then disappeared into the distance.

'Erik...' Christine's voice was low and trembling, it was so unfamiliar that he almost questioned whether she had actually spoken at all.

He heard her but dared not turn to look at her. Instead, he walked to Raoul and knelt at his side. The younger man managed to open his eyes, they were watery and red.

'Am I dying?' Raoul asked him, his voice crackling like static.

Erik looked down at him, glanced over the wound, 'Samantha,' he said, turning his head in her direction. She was still hunched in a ball but he had no time to deal with her self pity. 'Go and get help.'

She stared at him, her expression blank.

'Samantha...' his temper jerked and he forced it down.

He felt Raoul's hand grasp his sleeve and tug.

'I _am_ dying.' Raoul said and then swallowed hard. 'I know it.'

Erik was not sure what it was that finally did it but something broke Christine from her daze and as she turned, as if only realising in that moment what had happened, she ran towards them. 'Raoul... _Raoul_...'

Raoul gasped, 'Don't let her...'

Quickly, Erik stood and as she got closer he reached out and grabbed her before she could get to Raoul. He stood holding her while she screamed her husband's name. 'Let me go...'

'Christine,' he said softly, his hold on her firm and yet careful. She felt delicate in that moment, as if she might break. He wondered if she already had.

'Let... let me see him,' she demanded through her sobs.

'I'm trying to help him,' Erik explained and even to him it sounded odd. 'You need to stay back, give us room.'

She blinked and looked at him as his grip on her body loosened. 'Don't let him die...' she said, quietly.

Erik forced the image of her shattered expression from his mind and knelt back at Raoul's side.

'Is he alright?' Christine whispered and he could feel her standing behind him, he could feel the pain and the confusion that emanated from her.

Erik could not fathom an answer, any words of comfort he might have been able to give her were lost in his throat as Raoul opened his mouth and blood bubbled onto his lips. He glanced at the wound, open and seeping, painful and deathly.

'Erik...' Christine said.

Finally, he turned to look at her. Her eyes were open, wide, in that moment they were full of hope. They were begging him to make everything alright, to fix this god awful mess and to tell her that her husband would survive this.

He shook his head.

'No...' she said. 'No... _no_... it can't, he _can't_...'

Erik sighed. 'Go home Christine.'

She pointed, desperate. 'He's breathing.'

Erik opened his mouth to speak but felt Raoul pull at his sleeve again. When he looked down, Raoul's face was grey, 'Don't let her see me.'

Erik turned away and told her, 'There is nothing you can do, Christine,'

'I'm his wife...' she said, as if that made any difference, as if that could save him now.

Erik nodded. 'Benoit needs you to go home.'

Christine stood still, silent.

'I'll do what I can,' Erik assured her but it was a hollow sentiment because there was nothing he could do. He knew that, Raoul knew that... deep down he was sure that Christine knew it too.

'Raoul,' she said. 'I'm going to tuck Benoit in.'

Erik glanced at Raoul and saw a small smile appearing on his lips.

'You'll be home soon...' she nodded telling herself not Raoul. 'I'll see you soon.'

Raoul closed his eyes and managed a small nod of his head.

'I love you,' she said. 'Don't be... don't be too late.'

A tear found its way onto Raoul's cheek.

* * *

Raoul had the vague sensation that he was being pulled, like there was a string tied to the middle of his chest and that someone was trying to reel him to his feet. The pain in his torso was starting to dissipate, which was as much of a relief as it was frightening. He could taste blood in his mouth and when he tried to speak there was a horrible gargling feeling at the back of his throat.

He could hear the Phantom... _Erik_... talking to Christine and he felt a sharp pang of, absurdly, jealousy. Part of him wished that she would come to him so that he could hold her, tell her that he loved her... let her know that he forgave her. That everything he had done in his whole life was for her. The other side, the part of him with some sense of reason left, knew it was best if she did not. That she should not see what he looked like, the pain and the blood, she should remember him as they were.

Whenever he opened his eyes, things looked blurred and it took him long moments to focus his fading vision. It was exasperating because he wanted to see her, one time, before she left. He would have liked her face to be what he had to remember as he died.

Whatever Erik had said to her, it seemed to work because the next sound he heard was Christine's footsteps on the wooden boards getting further away.

The pain returned but this time it was in his heart and it was utterly excruciating.

When he opened his eyes again the hazy vision of a white mask was in his frame. He was sure that Samantha had gone, he was sure it was just the two of them now. Two old enemies. One now the victor...

'Has...' he started to say but he had to swallow blood away. He couldn't quite breathe properly, everything took so much effort. 'Has... she gone?'

The mask tilted to the side. 'Yes.'

'Is...'

Erik cut him off. 'You _stupid_ boy.'

Raoul wasn't surprised by the insult, only that it had not come sooner.

'She had chosen you,' Erik said, angrily. 'She had chosen you _again_.'

Raoul laughed, it sounded strange and it hurt, but it was a relief to laugh. It meant that he wasn't gone yet. 'You and I both know... that... isn't true.'

He felt a pressure on his chest and assumed that Erik was pressing down on his wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. He wondered why he was fighting so hard to save him.

'You sent her away.' Raoul managed to say, each word was torture but they were words that needed to be spoken. There was a lot that he needed to say now, a lot that he needed to say to _this_ man.

'She left with you.' Erik reminded him, his voice low and even. It was exactly as he remembered it except for the menace. That was almost all gone and the lack of it made his voice strangely sweet.

'But she...' Raoul took a breath, as best he could, so that he could get his words out. 'She... came back to you.'

Finally, his eyes focused just in time to see the confusion that crossed Erik's face.

'...loves you.' Raoul said, swallowing painfully. 'I know... always...'

'You know.' Erik said and although it didn't sound like a question Raoul knew that, for the first time ever, he had blindsided the Phantom. Oddly, he felt a swell of satisfaction.

'About Benoit.' Raoul gasped, his throat tightening around the words. His vision blurred again.

'She told you.'

'No.' He said as he struggled to shake his head. 'I ... knew. Always knew.'

'Then why...'

Raoul sighed as a coldness began to wash through him. He wasn't sure what was happening but he felt his teeth chatter and his core freeze to a deep an unshakeable cold.

'She...' he began and tried to force his trembling to stop. 'Needs you... not me... _always_ you.'

Erik did not respond.

'Can live without me,' Raoul somehow said. It hurt to think, it hurt to _feel_ but the physical pain was all but gone now. There was just cold. 'But not without you. She... she wouldn't survive.'

Erik coughed, 'How are you feeling?'

'Cold.' Raoul said. 'Tired... had enough... so tired...'

'Not long now.' Erik said and Raoul was amazed at the softness of his tone.

Raoul managed to nod. 'Good.'

Erik began to stand, Raoul could feel him start to move away, and so he reached out and grasped his hand. He blinked moisture away from his eyes and focused on the man he had always known as the Phantom. Erik looked surprised but he knelt back down anyway. Raoul wasn't sure why but he kept Erik's hand grasped in his, thumb by thumb, the grip of brothers.

'You... take care of them.' Raoul told him. 'I will be watching.'

Erik did not respond.

'My turn to... to haunt _you_.'

Erik smiled.

'Tired.'

Erik's grip tightened on his hand. It felt oddly reassuring.

'Always thought I would die _at_ your hand.' Raoul said, with a wry smile. 'Not hanging on... to it.'

Raoul finally allowed his eyes to close, they were too heavy now to keep open. The lids plunged him into a blackness darker than anything he had ever seen before and the pulling sensation in his chest returned but this time warmth replaced the freezing.

Christine's vision appeared in his mind, she was holding Benoit's hand.

He had loved the boy but he had always known of Christine's indiscretion, though it mattered little to him. As hurt as he felt his love for her had always prevailed. Moments of weakness came and went but love lasted a lifetime. He had known all along about his son and though he knew this, Benoit had been _his_, deep within Raoul's _heart_, even if not biologically. Christine had been his too, for ten blissful years, and he would not change them for anything.

Not for the world, for his life... no, he would change _nothing_.

He felt a sharp pain as he tried to breath and realised that no air would come into his lungs but then he felt no pain anymore, no fear, no anxiety... nothing at all.

When he saw his father he knew that it was time.

Comforted that he had lived his life the way he had always wanted to, that he had laughed and cried, that he had worked hard, been brave, that he had loved with all of his heart and that he had died saving another, he held out his palm and accepted his father's outreached hand.

* * *

A/N: Please accept my apologies for any mistakes in this. I need to post today or I will not get time. Feedback, as always, is much appreciated but I just wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas. I hope that the New Year finds you in good health and that 2011 is kind to you. x


	39. Chapter 39

**A**/N: This is the first of the two alternate endings. The story does need tying up but I didn't want to drag it out any further... it was always planned to end this way (not this ending particularly but quite suddenly, because LND did) and to some it may seem a little abrupt but I have always said it is about the journey more than the ending.

I hope that you have enjoyed it.

I will post this now and the other next week (possibly the week after, I am so busy!), you can guess which I prefer, but it is a close run thing.

Happy New Year.

**Final Chapter – Version 1**

It was a beautiful day.

The sun was high and bright in the sky, it was warm but not suffocating, the breeze was cooling and yet not too cold. Inside the theatre he was once again reminded of its conception, the splendour of the old building's lines, the height of the magnificent dome, the smoothness of the marble underneath his feet. So little had changed with the building in the years since its creation; it was still the place to be in New York, it still attracted the most sophisticated of stars and guests alike, it still sold out on every night, it was still beautiful... still... _contemporary_ and yet holding onto its traditions.

The theatre was everything he was not.

Inside the auditorium rehearsals were taking place and the sound of the orchestra tuning made a small smile appear on his lips. The familiarity of the opera house was something he would never tire of. Over the years since the fateful night on the pier he had often been reminded of all of the things that he was unable to control. For example, _mostly_, life and death was out of his remit as was the weather and, of particular significance, other people's impulses were far beyond his reach.

As usual, the thought of not being in control made him shiver and he turned from the auditorium and made his way to the stairs.

The theatre held so many good memories for him, memories of _this_ time, this time in which he was accepted in a country that cared little about his mask and eccentricities but it also reminded him of the things in his life that had gone horribly wrong.

There had been many of those.

Losing Christine... Raoul's murder...

Another memory sprung up and he thought of how awkward the aftermath of Raoul's death had been and how difficult it had been to manipulate. Still, if nothing else he was at least skilled at _that_. By the time the police had arrived a plan was in place. The gun gone, the witnesses gone, Raoul's life gone and the assailant gone, all he really needed to do was weave a simple story.

It was strange how some recollections were stronger than others, how some moments were as vivid in the mind as the day that they had happened. Like his conversation with the detective that. It was as though it was only yesterday, he could still feel the cool breeze on his back, could taste the spray from the ocean on his lips.

'_Well, because you're who you are, we'll keep it low key,' the officer had told him, after Erik had explained how he happened upon the body of Vicomte de Chagny. 'We know you wouldn't want to be publicly involved in something like this, sir.'_

'_Indeed,' Erik had said. _The irony of the statement had not escaped him.

Erik claimed to have been taking one of his late night walks on the beach when he came across Raoul who was alone and bleeding on the pier.

_No_, he had not seen anything.

_Yes_, he had tried to save him.

_No_, there were _no_ other witnesses.

Covered in Raoul's blood, Erik had felt the rather strange sensation of loss. At that moment he had suddenly realised that, for all of the threats, all of the anger, he would never have killed Raoul de Chagny. The opportunity had presented itself so many times over the years and yet the only time he had ever been remotely tempted to take it had been _that_ night in the cellars.

The Vicomte was, after all, just a boy.

He was again reminded that he had not seen Christine since he had sent her away that night. He had instead communicated through Philippe de Chagny, who was shocked that night into becoming a responsible human being.

Erik had expected some sort of retaliation but Christine had clearly explained what had happened. Philippe was level minded and fair, he helped with the arrangements, he spoke to police... he grieved as, Erik assumed, all brothers do.

Erik never saw the way Christine reacted to the news of her husband's death and he was glad of that. He could not have comforted her in any way and so his presence would only have served to make things worse. It would not have been for the first time.

She wanted to take Raoul back to France, it was a difficult arrangement to make but Erik and Philippe both used their influence and managed to quickly secure a passage for Raoul back to Europe despite the various captain's legitimate protests.

Erik had read about the funeral in the international pages of the newspaper and was relieved to see that no morbid photographs had been included in the piece. He no longer had the stomach for such things.

Each month Erik wrote once to Christine and transferred, by way of telegraph, a portion of money into her bank. He never knew if she spent the money and he rarely received any correspondence from her.

When he sat down in box five, with the door closed and the music reaching up to him, he dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out one particularly dog eared letter.

_Erik,_

_It is so painful to write to you. It brings back too many memories. _

_Thank you for your letter and for the money, although you really should not worry so much about us._

_I am keeping well, thank you, and things are fine here. I have, as you might be aware, started singing again. It is strange but although you are not near, I feel you there, guiding me... steering me in the right direction, as you always have. _

_However much I miss you, it is too soon for anything to become of us. I ask you not to wait for me because I do not know if I will ever be able to see you again. As brutal as this will sound, I feel that honesty is the only way now. _

_I love you, with all of my heart but that same heart still bleeds._

_I take care of Benoit, he is such a bright boy, and I sing. _

_I have energy for little else._

_Forgive me for not writing more frequently but each time I pick up my pen I am almost compelled to spill my heart to you, but I know that that is wrong. I know that it is wrong for me to tell you that I love you in one breath and then to tell you that I cannot be with you in another. _

_Do not wait for me, my love, because I may never have the strength to get there._

_Yours... _always_,_

_Christine._

Erik pressed the letter to his chest and sighed. It was a heavy sigh, intense and pained and it came from deep within his heart. Finally, he took a breath and tucked the letter back safely into his pocket.

Watching the rehearsals and lost in memories, he did not even realise that there was someone in the corridor until he heard the door to his box click open.

'I told George that I didn't want to be disturbed,' he said, without turning. At one time someone sneaking up behind him would have prompted action but these days, it did little more than irritate him.

'I didn't think you would mind.'

Erik frowned because the voice was strangely familiar and yet he did not quite recognise it. When he turned he was greeted by a tall, young man, neatly dressed in trousers and a white shirt... apparently the young now got away without wearing suit jackets in public now.

'Don't look so surprised,' the man said, with a small smile. His blue eyes twinkled in the dim light. 'We had a deal.'

Erik nodded. 'I rather thought you might give it a miss.'

The man shrugged broad shoulders and took a seat in the box. He looked so casual and so relaxed that Erik was taken aback. He noted the slightly stubbled jaw, the black hair...the unblemished face.

'I am a man of my word.'

'A boy of your word, apparently,' Erik said.

Benoit smiled. 'Aren't you pleased to see me?'

Erik's throat felt almost too constricted to speak. 'Of course...'

'You're shocked,' Benoit said, with a softness to his voice that Erik recognised as being his own. 'That's understandable. I would be too... well, I think.'

He wasn't really sure what to say as he stood there staring down at his son, who had grown and matured, who was not afraid of him or what he might say, what he might do. Benoit blew his hair out of his eyes with a boyish self assurance that Erik would have so loved in his youth.

Benoit sat up straight. 'I thought I should come.'

'I'm glad you did.'

'She told me.' Benoit said, caution entering his tone and the expression on his face. 'In case you were wondering... what am I saying? Of course you were wondering...'

He wondered if the other man was now sounding a little nervous.

'I think I might have known.' Benoit continued, undeterred by Erik's lack of response. 'We were so alike.'

'You were a boy.'

'And yet you were the only one who seemed to understand me, even as a boy... I _knew_ that.'

'Are you here alone?' Erik asked, wondering...

Benoit nodded his head. 'I don't have any friends.'

'Surely you must have _some_ friends,' Erik said, finding it hard to believe that such an educated, handsome man could be _without_ friends.

'Not really.' Benoit shrugged. It was the same shrug that Erik used and he suddenly felt a tight squeeze around his heart. 'People don't really _appreciate_ me.'

Erik stared at him. It was like looking into a mirror that had burned away his ugliness and in its place etched perfection. Benoit looked just like him. Their eyes, their jaw line, the colour of their hair... _blacker than night_... height, broadness, voice... but the nose, the lips... his cheeks... they were unmistakably Christine.

After a moments silence Benoit said, 'She told me all about you.'

Erik's heart sank.

'She thought that I should know,' Benoit explained. 'I think she was right.'

'Why did you come?' Erik asked, his barriers suddenly raised, he almost felt the defences build within him. Benoit knew about his past.

'I wanted to see you.' Benoit replied without hesitation. 'When she told me... I'm sure she thought I would be horrified. I think it worried her that I wasn't...'

Surprised, Erik asked, 'You weren't horrified?'

Benoit shook his head. 'I understood your motivations.'

Erik wondered how Christine had taken that news.

'Don't worry,' Benoit smiled. 'I won't be following in your footsteps when it comes to _that_ but I... I understood.'

'When did she tell you?'

'That you were my father?'

Erik swallowed, nodded.

'I was around eleven, I believe.'

'And the rest?'

Benoit turned his head away and for the first time Erik saw that he wasn't as totally composed as he seemed. When he turned back there was a shimmer of moisture underneath his eyes.

'Recently,' he answered.

Erik felt a twinge of pain in his chest and pressed his hand there.

'You loved her.'

Erik looked at him.

'She knew.'

He nodded.

'She loved you too.'

Finally, Erik slumped into one of the seats in the box. He closed his eyes and saw her face, as he always did, smiling at him. Eyes as smooth and dark as silk, a smile with all of the warmth of the Spring sun... When he opened his eyes again he found that Benoit had poured brandy, from the drinks table, into a glass and was standing over him, holding it out. Erik took it, sipped gratefully, and watched as his son took his seat again.

'The war...'

Erik looked at him.

'It was ... _difficult_,' Benoit sighed. 'For both of us.'

Erik did not say anything because he could not. There were simply too many conflicting feelings that he could not express any of them.

The war.

He recalled, with dismay, how he had felt for those four, terrible years. Safe in America having sent Christine and Benoit back to France, where he thought they belonged. France was _ravaged_ before his eyes, on the wireless... in the newspapers. It was the only time she wrote to him more than twice a year.

To say that she was safe.

That Benoit was safe.

Each letter brought both joy and sorrow, brought the worry and guilt that had wracked him every day and was so powerful that for a time he thought that it might consume him.

'She knew she was dying,' Benoit said, breaking his trance. 'When she told me... she knew she would not survive.'

Erik squeezed his eyes closed for fear that they might give him away. Give away his heart break, his sorrow... his guilt.

'They're calling it the Spanish Flu.'

Erik cleared his throat in an attempt to compose himself. 'Were you with her?'

Benoit nodded. 'She didn't die alone.'

Erik could speak no more because the lump in his throat grew so that it almost suffocated him.

'She wasn't afraid,' Benoit said, his own voice strained. 'She told me that she could not be afraid of death after the sacrifices that others had made for her... she...'

It was Benoit that finally broke. Tears spilled from his eyes and he pressed his face into his hand. Erik swallowed his own sorrow and said, 'She was ... she wouldn't want you to cry.'

He wiped his eyes. 'I'm sorry...'

'It's fine to be upset, Benoit...'

He laughed. 'I think I am always crying when you see me.'

For the first time, Erik smiled. 'And every time you have had good reason.'

Benoit stared at him for a long moment. 'Strange. You haven't aged much.'

'Odd isn't it?' Erik laughed. 'I'm born with a deformed face and skin that barely seems to age..'

Benoit cringed. 'It seems... _cruel_.'

'I assume your mother told you about my face,' Erik said.

Benoit nodded.

'And that doesn't put you off... from visiting me?'

'Should it?' Benoit asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

'It does all others.'

'What is your face?' Benoit asked with a shrug of his shoulders. 'It isn't who you are.'

'It was,' Erik said. 'For a time.'

'It shouldn't define you,' Benoit said and Erik remembered someone else saying something very similar to him many years before.

'I did horrible things.'

'Do you now?'

Erik lifted his eyebrows. 'Not like that.'

'Do you repent?' Benoit asked and Erik noted that there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

'No,' Erik replied honestly.

'That doesn't surprise me,' Benoit smiled. 'I suspect we agree that regretting your actions can be a waste of time and energy. We can't change the things we have done.'

'Do you share any of your mother's traits?' Erik asked, bemused.

Benoit smiled gently. 'I'm very much like her.'

This time Erik laughed. 'In which ways?'

'In the things that really matter.'

Erik lifted his eyebrows as Benoit stood. The younger man flexed his back and straightened out, neatening his trousers as he did. He reached across and placed his hand on Erik's shoulder, a touch that, from anyone else, would have been entirely unwelcome. His son's hand felt warm, oddly comforting, even through his jacket.

'Come,' Benoit said. 'Coffee. That's what people do, isn't it, when they get to know each other?'

Erik remained seated, not really knowing what to do. He had often wondered if this moment would ever happen, he had thought about it, planned it meticulously in his mind. In his world, he would have been in control but in this one, in the real one, Benoit seemed to hold all of the cards.

Benoit removed his hand and walked to the door.

'Father, I've made reservations,' he said, with mock impatience as he glanced back over his shoulder. 'We'll be late.'

_Father_.

Erik stood and Benoit waited for him, propping the door open. As he walked through it he turned and looked his son in the eye, properly, for the first time. They shone even under the dim lights and Erik asked, 'What _are_ the things that matter?'

Benoit smiled and said, quietly, 'You are.'

Erik touched his jacket pocket, feeling for the letter from Christine, knowing it was there he felt utterly reassured and just a little bit sorrowful. The news of her death had threatened to destroy him and only the resolve he somehow built over the years without her kept him going. He knew that in the end, no matter what, no matter how, he would be with her. In life and in death, one way or another.

He swallowed.

Stepping out he finally followed his son, who walked with confidence and without care, into what now seemed a completely different world. Everything the same, the walls, the floor, the sky... all the same and yet everything that really mattered was different. Benoit smiled at him and Erik found himself willingly following him... into this whole, new world.

_Fin_

_

* * *

_

A/N: The Spanish flu killed between 50 million and 100 million people between 1917 and 1920. It killed more people than the great war and was called the Spanish flu simply because of the news coverage in Spain... although they did not know that at the time and assumed that because there was more news, there were more cases.


	40. Chapter 40

A/N: This is the second of the two alternate endings and thus ends the journey.

I hope that from start to finish it met your expectations and that you have enjoyed reading it.

Thank you for all of the reviews, the PM's, the e-mails and feedback... I said at the beginning that writing isn't about the reviews but they certainly make me smile and I think they act as a prompt... thank you!

**Final Chapter – Version 2**

It was a beautiful day.

The sun was high and bright in the sky, it was warm but not suffocating, the breeze was cooling and yet not too cold. Inside the theatre he was once again reminded of its conception, the splendour of the old building's lines, the height of the magnificent dome, the smoothness of the marble underneath his feet. So little had changed with the building in the years since its creation; it was still the place to be in New York, it still attracted the most sophisticated of stars and guests alike, it still sold out on every night, it was still beautiful... still... _contemporary_ and yet holding onto its traditions.

The theatre was everything he was not.

Inside the auditorium rehearsals were taking place and the sound of the orchestra tuning made a small smile appear on his lips. The familiarity of the opera house was something he would never tire of. Over the years since the fateful night on the pier he had often been reminded of all of the things that he was unable to control. For example, _mostly_, life and death were out of his remit as was the weather and, of particular significance, other people's impulses were far beyond his reach.

As usual, the thought of not being in control made him shiver and he turned from the auditorium and made his way to the stairs.

The theatre held so many good memories for him, memories of _this_ time, this time in which he was accepted in a country that cared little about his mask and eccentricities but it also reminded him of the things in his life that had gone horribly wrong.

There had been many of those.

Losing Christine... Raoul's murder...

Another memory sprung up and he thought of how awkward the aftermath of Raoul's death had become and how difficult it had been to manipulate. Still, if nothing else he was at least skilled at _that_. By the time the police had arrived a plan was in place. The gun gone, the witnesses gone, Raoul's life gone and the assailant gone, all he really needed to do was weave a simple story.

It was strange how some recollections were stronger than others, how some moments were as vivid in the mind as the day that they had happened. Like his conversation with the detective that night. It was as though it was only yesterday, he could still feel the cool breeze on his back, could taste the spray from the ocean on his lips.

'_Well, because you're who you are, we'll keep it low key,' the officer had told him, after Erik had explained how he happened upon the body of Vicomte de Chagny. 'We know you wouldn't want to be publicly involved in something like this, sir.'_

'_Indeed,' Erik had said. _The irony of the statement had not escaped him.

Erik claimed to have been taking one of his late night walks on the beach when he came across Raoul who was alone and bleeding on the pier.

_No_, he had not seen anything.

_Yes_, he had tried to save him.

_No_, there were _no_ other witnesses.

Covered in Raoul's blood, Erik had felt the rather strange sensation of loss. At that moment he had suddenly realised that, for all of the threats, all of the anger, he would never have killed Raoul de Chagny. The opportunity had presented itself so many times over the years and yet the only time he had ever been remotely tempted to take it had been _that_ night in the cellars.

The Vicomte was, after all, just a boy.

He was again reminded that he had not seen Christine since he had sent her away that night. He had instead communicated through Philippe de Chagny, who was shocked that night into becoming a responsible human being.

Erik had expected some sort of retaliation but Christine had clearly explained what had happened. Philippe was level minded and fair, he helped with the arrangements, he spoke to the police... he grieved as, Erik assumed, all brothers do.

Erik never saw the way Christine reacted to the news of her husband's death and he was glad of that. He could not have comforted her in any way and so his presence would only have served to make things worse. It would not have been for the first time.

She wanted to take Raoul back to France, it was a difficult arrangement to make but Erik and Philippe both used their influence and managed to quickly secure a passage for Raoul back to Europe despite the captain's legitimate protests.

Erik had read about the funeral in the international pages of the newspaper and was relieved to see that no morbid photographs had been included in the piece. He no longer had the stomach for such things.

Each month Erik wrote once to Christine and transferred, by way of telegraph, a portion of money into her bank. He never knew if she spent the money and he rarely received any correspondence from her.

When he sat down in box five, with the door closed and the music reaching up to him, he eased forward and leaned with his forearms on the ledge of the box. He looked out over his creation and as the music swelled he heard only notes that he had written. For the first time since he had opened the opera house, the performance would be of an opera written by him.

The first he had written in many years.

_The first since Don Juan. _

There were, of course, notable differences between the Erik of then and the Erik of now. The music, if nothing else, showed this. He could still draw on his suffering but the whole plot, the whole theme, was so much lighter. Don Juan had been a dark view into his darker mind and was, in spite of what Nadir might have thought, a masterpiece but that did not mean that others should ever have been privy to it.

There were few things from his past life that now remained; the mask, the opera, his love for Christine and _Don Juan_. He had kept the score safe when he fled and it was the only material thing that he truly, genuinely treasured.

As he closed his eyes to listen to the music he was surprised to hear the door to his box click open. Whether he was more taken aback that the theatre guard, George, had let anyone up or that he himself had only just heard them, he did not know.

'I asked George not to let anyone up,' he said, with his back to the door. He was in no mood for conversation, he was listening to music and he simply wanted to get lost within its peaks.

'I sidestepped him.'

Erik froze.

'Could I possibly be forgiven?'

Slowly Erik opened his eyes and he gripped the ledge of the box, almost afraid to turn around lest her voice behind him be some sort of twisted delusion.

A moments silence past before she asked, 'Why won't you look at me?'

'I...' he swallowed and evened out his shaking breathing. 'I'm afraid you might not really be there.'

'There is only one way to know for sure,' she told him.

Gradually, he began to turn his body, taking it little by little until he was sat, facing Christine. Her long brown hair was free and hung in loose curls that touched the tops of her shoulders, her eyes were deep yet soft, full of what Erik wanted to believe was affection. She smiled the smile that thawed him, melted him from the heart outwards until he was warm all the way through, head to toe, heart and soul.

'You haven't changed,' she said as her eyes studied his face. Suddenly, he was conscious of his mask and even after all of this time he needed to force himself not to turn away.

'You look...'

Again, she smiled.

'Beautiful,' he whispered. 'You look _beautiful_. You look like heaven.'

She stepped into the box and it was only then that he saw moisture shimmering in her eyes.

'It's so good to see you, Erik,' she said.

'You have no idea...' he managed to say, although the words threatened to catch in his throat.

'Are you...' she paused and he watched as she took a deep breath. 'Have I left it too long?'

Erik was puzzled by the question, he had no idea what she meant and the look on his face must have told her because she added, 'Are you married?'

The question, so out of the blue and so ludicrous, immediately broke the tension he felt within. He laughed out loud for the first time in years and only stopped when he realised that Christine was deadly serious.

'Me?' he asked, just to clarify that she realised who she was talking to and what she had just said.

'Yes,' she said, her focused stare unwavering.

'Of course not.'

'It isn't so ridiculous,' she said earnestly. 'You aren't the same...'

'It _is_ ridiculous,' he said with a forcefulness he had thought long gone.

'Why?' she demanded. 'Because you wear a mask... because of your past...'

'No.'

'Then why is it so ridiculous?' she asked, her voice gentle now, its softness reminding him of goose feathers, the way it felt on his skin, the way her voice sounded to his ears.

'How could I Christine?' he returned, his eyes fixed to hers, their gazes locked.

She did not reply. Instead, she nervously felt behind her, pushing on the door to ensure that it was tightly locked. He wondered for a moment what she thought he might do but he quickly realised that the nervousness was not born of fear.

It something entirely different.

'How could I?' he asked her again, rising from his seat. 'There is only you, for me, Christine.'

As he said her name she closed her eyes and took a breath, placing her hand on her stomach.

'You waited,' she said, as her eyes opened again and she peered at him from under thick lashes.

'There was hope.'

'And if there wasn't?'

He stared at her. 'I would still have waited.'

A small smile graced her flawless lips. 'It was last from Pandora's box.'

He nodded. 'There is _always_ hope.'

She, too, nodded her head.

'I would always wait,' he explained. 'I _will_ always wait. For me... for me there was always the hope that you would return...' he sucked in a breath, '... that you would come back to me.'

She moved closer to him and reached out, holding her hand there, in between them. Erik slowly moved his hand and touched her fingertips with his. Whorl against whorl.

'I always come back to you,' she whispered, so softly that the words floated to him. Their eyes met and she smiled, 'Even when I don't mean to.'

He returned her smile and in that moment, their hands touching, he wondered how he had ever survived all of those years without her, how he had ever woken up each day, how he had breathed in and out... how he had existed.

He glanced down at their hands, fingertips _just_ touching, bridging the gap between them. Questions swam his mind but none surfaced, he could not speak because words could not do this feeling justice, this feeling of wonderment, the sensation of her skin, this feeling of love.

Gently, Christine slipped her fingers between his so that their hands were finally locked together, palm against palm, as it always should have been. She stepped into him and placed her head underneath his chin, pressed herself to him and wrapped him into her arms.

'I always come back to you,' she repeated gently, sighing against his chest.

In an instant it did not matter how long they had spent apart, or how many lives had crossed their paths in between. It did not matter what oceans they traversed, it did not matter what route they took on their journey... it did not matter because they were together now.

All that mattered was now.

He pressed his lips into her hair and kissed gently, taking in the smell of soap and cherries, the smooth, softness of her hair. It felt like the most normal thing in the world; to be holding her, to be kissing her... and yet only moments earlier he could not dare to dream that he would ever even _see_ her again.

At his back he could feel his jacket pull where she had bunched it into her fist, holding onto him so tightly he wondered if she would ever let go. Gently, he stroked the small of her back, a gesture to tell her that he was there and that this, if she wanted it, was forever.

'I've missed you,' she murmured into his shirt. 'I was worried that you... I was afraid you might not want me anymore.'

'I have never loved anyone else,' he said softly. 'I never will.'

She pulled back and looked into his eyes. 'I should have come sooner.'

'I understand,' he told her and meant it. Years ago the idea of empathy was so foreign to him he could barely even imagine it. Now, having lived through what he had, after witnessing Raoul's sacrifice, after meeting his son... his perspective had changed.

'And then fighting broke out...' Christine sighed, her eyes drifting from his for a brief moment. 'We fled, as I told you, to England.'

'I believe I owe Meg's husband a debt of gratitude,' Erik said.

'We needed somewhere to go and he let us stay with him... both of us.'

'How is he?' Erik asked.

She smiled, 'Benoit is... he's wonderful.'

'Is he here?'

Christine nodded, 'He is at the Met.'

Erik placed his hand on his heart in mock offence. 'Why not play here?'

'He didn't want you to take him because he is your son.'

Erik stared at her. 'You told him.'

'Of course I did.'

Erik's arms dropped to his sides. 'What about Raoul?'

'He loved Raoul but he has the right to know,' she explained with a sadness in her smile that made its way all the way into her eyes. 'He remembers you with fondness, Erik.'

'We barely...'

She placed her finger gently against his lips, stopping the words before they came. 'He always insisted that you were kin... in some way or another. He knew there was something different about you.'

They stood there with the music from below playing around them but Erik knew that neither of them really heard it. He smiled to himself because the only thing in the entire world that could make music pale into insignificance was Christine, was the way he loved her.

Erik paused before asking his next question because he simply was not sure if he truly wanted to hear the answer. He turned it over in his mind and finally asked, 'Does he want to see me?'

She slipped her hand down his arm and grasped his hand. 'Of course he does.'

He wasn't sure whether he should feel pleased, relieved or terrified but he nodded and said, 'I'm sorry...'

'It's in the past,' she said softly.

'I...'

'All of it,' she insisted. 'It's gone. This is a new start. For us.'

She leaned up and brushed her lips softly against his. They tingled as she moved away.

'If you'll have me,' she added, with a smile.

Erik looked at her, there in the flesh, willingly grasping onto his hand. He had not forced her, he had not manipulated her, he had not threatened nor kidnapped her... she was there because she chose to be, because she _wanted_ to be. He looked at her and with a deep breath and a lot of courage said, 'I think we should get married.'

She stared at him, the stunned silence surrounding them until she began to giggle. Which, although a little perplexing, was perhaps the most wonderful sound he had ever heard.

'What?' he asked. 'People get married. That's what they do.'

She nodded and pulled him close to her. 'I don't think people tend to propose like that though.'

'Don't they?' he asked, because he genuinely had no idea.

She shook her head as she released him from her hold.

'Oh.'

She took his hand and said, 'They say... will you marry me?'

'Right,' he nodded. 'Will you marry me?'

She rolled her eyes. 'How romantic.'

'Oh, I see, its romance you want,' he said as he swept her into his arms. He looked down into her eyes until he saw that she knew he meant it. When she tilted her head, he did not need any more hints. He gently pressed his lips to hers and held her to him. She threw her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with such affection that he was left without doubt about her feelings.

When she finally broke the kiss he noticed that her cheeks were flushed pink and her lips had reddened. Holding her there as she leaned back in his arms, he whispered, 'Christine...'

'Yes,' she said gently. 'Yes.'

Now _he_ was stuck for words and so he simply kissed her again and then again until she stopped him by placing her fingertips on his lips and said, 'I don't even know where we live.'

'It's dark... the house,' he said. 'We'll find somewhere new.'

She moved out of his embrace and to the door.

'Where are we going?' he asked.

'Anywhere,' she said. 'Everywhere... we're going to do all of things we couldn't do before.'

Erik stared at her.

'Walking on the beach together,' she said, holding her hand out to him. 'The theatre... _together_...'

As he grasped her hand in his and she tugged him through the door, he was reminded of a time where he had led the way. It was he who guided her through doorways, their hands locked together, it was he who directed her, protected her, loved her beyond all reason.

For once in his life he felt washed with an overwhelming contentment to be shown the way, to not be control, to let Christine love him the way she wanted to. He felt loved and at ease.

He gladly followed her through the corridors and out onto the New York Street, she did not let go of his hand but slowed to walk by his side, their fingers interlocked. He should have made a million apologies to her, thousands of explanations but he realised now that her love was such, that these were unnecessary.

She had hurt him once, betrayed him and almost broken him but he had loved her so much that he forgave her, without question, and loved her still.

She had been forgiven, rather quicker than he had ever intended. That was the thing about love. It really did conquer all, it could make you remember and forget in equal measures the rights and wrongs that had been done. It could make you happy and it could make you feel immense sadness, but above all it could make you better.

Because he had loved her, she had been forgiven.

And because she loved him... so, now, had he.

* * *

**A/N2: I will reply to all of you individually as soon as I get chance. Thank you again.**


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